


Cops and Robbers

by croftingthroughtombs



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: M/M, this spiralled out of control, this started as a crack ship and i don't know what happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 11:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 55,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6565021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/croftingthroughtombs/pseuds/croftingthroughtombs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another massive fic written with professorpenandink on tumblr</p><p>Basically Descole and Don Paolo team up to rob a bank, some shit goes down, they fall in love, there's a lot of drama, and eventually there's a happy ending.</p><p>(I suck at summaries I'm sorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Being a criminal mastermind is a tiring job; any one of them will tell you that. Paul, known to all those who wished not to be given the stink eye as Don Paolo, was no exception to this rule. So, after a long day of de-stressing after his latest plan's failure; going grocery shopping, relaxing in the garage after working on a machine, pointedly avoiding a one Professor Hershel Layton, all he wanted was to go home and finish the day with a nice cup of tea and some television. That wasn't how the night decided to go.

 

Upon the moment of opening his front door, the first and only words to come out of his mouth were “What the everloving fuck?” This choice of words was understandable, as the sight he was greeted with when entering his flat – his home – was a strange man, who had helped himself to a slice of toast and jam.

 

"Language, Paul. My ears are sensitive." The man at the table drawled, "I hope you don't mind the intrusion."

 

And there was the stink eye, straight off the bat. This man had waltzed into (no, wait, broken into) his home, scolded his language, called him 'Paul' (of all the names, why Paul? He always despaired...), and - worst of all - eaten his toast. No way was he getting away with that.

 

 "No objections? Great. I'll move my things in presently." The man hummed, finishing the toast.

 

Don Paolo hadn't even registered that he'd been speaking.

 

“Who the fuck do you think you are? Breaking in here, stealing my food. I should call...”

  
  
“The police?” The man laughed, “You and I both know that would be a terrible idea.”

 

“Yeah, problem, pal. I don’t know who you are, so why would I listen to you?”

 

"Come on, you must have heard of me. I'm _the_ villainous mastermind people like you look up to." The man smirked, looking far too pleased with himself for Don Paolo's liking.

 

"You're an egotistical bastard in a feather boa is what you are." He snarked in return, dropping his groceries, wincing when he heard the eggs make a suspiciously crack-like sound, and then folded his arms.

 

The man rolled his eyes, folding one leg over the other. "Does the name Jean Descole honestly not ring any bells?"

 

“Never heard ah ya.” Paul said in a monotone voice.

 

Despite the mask covering the top half of his face, Paul could tell that this ‘Jean Descole’ didn’t look at all happy.

 

“Ah, well, I do try to keep hidden.” Descole sighed with a very fake sounding chuckle.

 

"Okay, Dessy-lei, or whatever, why're you here? I wasn't listening. At all. In fact I tuned out sometime soon after you said 'Language'." Paul smirked, tapping his foot.

 

Jean Descole paused for a moment, finished his toast with a remarkably straight face, then turned back to Paul. He put his hands together, and he'd look like he was praying if he didn't look quite so pissed off. Still elongating the moment, he sighed.

 

"Okay, okay, I get the point, you're annoyed. What. Do. You. Want?!" Paul burst out, impatient and annoyed.

 

"I'm moving in."

 

Paul was baffled to say the least. This man comes into his home, totally uninvited, eats his toast, and then says this. And Paul wasn’t going to stand for it.

 

“No you’re not.” He said sternly, “Why would you even say that? Where would you get that idea? How did you even find this place?”

 

“You do ask a lot of questions, don’t you?” Descole smirked.

 

"Damn right, I ask a lot of questions; I have a right to! This is my flat!" Paul fumed, finely groomed and extra-pointy moustache bristling with annoyance.

 

"I believe you meant to say, 'our flat'." Descole corrected quietly, sipping a mug of tea.

 

"Yeah, right, our f- Wait, no! My flat! And only my flat! Get out!" Paul pointed to the still ajar door, glaring at the other man with a deep hatred.

 

"Hm, shame. I thought you'd be good for this heist. And the amount of money, too... I was sure you'd be all for it."

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

“Oh, now you’re interested.”

 

“How much money we talkin’?”

 

“We?”

 

“Yeah, we, just spit it out.”

 

Descole’s face was suddenly decorated with a devious grin and he let out a laugh.

 

"I don't suppose you've heard of Fredrich Beluga, have you?" Descole smirked, sipping his tea and adjusting the mask he was wearing.

 

"Wait, ain't that... The Molentary Express bloke?" Paul's mouth dropped open as Descole nodded, and he had a hard time shutting it again as he continued.

 

"Well, I happen to know exactly where his vault is in the Bank of England. Half the profit goes to you after we succeed. Are you in?"

 

“Hell yes.” Paul’s eyes lit up, plans already beginning to form in his mind.

 

“Good. Then I’ll have to stay here with you so we can make arrangements.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. How’re we gonna do this?”

 

"Well first comes blueprints, and all the security devices that protect the vault. The actual break in comes later." Descole explained, a scheming grin on his face.

 

"Hah! If there's anything I specialise in, it's machines. I'll have the data in no time." Paul gloated, smirking triumphantly.

 

“A trait you and I have in common, that’s why I chose you for this, because of course I can’t do this alone.”

 

“Well, when such a large amount of cash is involved, you can count me in!”

 

"I thought that might be the reaction." Descole sipped the last of his tea as he spoke, then glanced around, "Now then, Paul, let's get to work."

 

Paul's face dropped from its eager grin, back to a look of annoyance. "If this partnership is going to work, you need to stop calling me Paul."

 

"What, like Paolo is any better?"

 

“Come on, I doubt ‘Jean Descole’ is your real name. You don’t sound French.”

 

“At least my name doesn’t make me sound like a cartoon villain.”

 

“Oh, har har. Let’s just get this done before I change my mind.”

 

Paul sat opposite Descole at the table, snatching his second slice of toast and beginning to eat.

 

"Excuse me?!"

 

"My house, my toast. Buy your own bread with your own ill gotten gains."

 

Descole looked annoyed, then took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose before getting some paper out from a bag.

 

"Alright, whatever. Look, here are the plans to the bank. We need to scope it out before we break in, learn what security measures there are. The man's one of the richest in England; he won't take it lightly."

 

“We’ll have to go down there, then. But we’ll have to go incognito, don’t wanna arouse suspicion. I’d lose the boa and mask if I were you.”

 

“And I’d lose the pointy hair and moustache.”

 

“Touché.”

 

Descole rifled through his bag, then nodded with satisfaction.

 

"I'm sorted for a disguise."

 

"As am I. Don Paolo, master of disguise."

 

"'Master', my left hand. I'd like to see your disguise beat mine."

 

“You better sit down now, because you’ll need to once you’ve seen what I have in store.”

 

“I highly doubt it. No one is better at disguise than I. I bet all you’ve got is a cheap rubber mask that’ll fool no one.”

“You’d be surprised, mate.”

 

"Alright then. Go, put on this disguise of yours. I will too, then we can compare." Descole smirked, cracked his knuckles, and waited for Paul to accept his challenge, which he quickly did.

 

"I'm going to win."

 

“Of course you are, I have every bit of faith in you.” Descole said, sarcasm practically dripping from his voice.

 

“Unless you wanna do this heist on your own, I’d watch your tone.” Paul called from the other room.

 

Descole huffed and quickly changed into his own disguise, one of a young man with ginger hair. He'd be totally unrecognisable, even seeming taller than usual thanks to specially adapted shoes.

 

Meanwhile, Don Paolo had gone for the aged-up disguise, and reappeared in the kitchen as an elderly lady, crouched over on a walking stick.

 

"I told you I'm better." He said, voice perfectly imitating an old lady.

 

“Hmm. I’d say we’re evenly matched.” Descole said, refusing to admit his obvious defeat.

 

“Yeah, sure. ‘Evenly’.” Paul’s voice returned to his normal one, which sounded extremely odd coming from the apparent body of an old lady.

 

“Never break character! If you did that in the bank we’d be done for.”

 

“Well we’re not in the bank right now, are we? I know better than to break character during that sorta situation, so don’t worry your pretty little ginger head about it.”

 

Descole glared again, adjusting his wig and checking himself in the reflection of the window. He hummed at the clothes he'd chosen, thinking that they fit this character perfectly.

 

"Let's go then. Or does the little old lady need a sit down before she goes out?"

 

"Watch it, boy scout, or you won't be getting your 'aiding the elderly' badge."

 

Descole held up his hands in defence.

 

“Terribly sorry, madam. Shall we go?”

 

“Don’t call me that.” Paul instructed, “Come on.”

 

He headed towards the door, grabbing a long umbrella. Descole followed behind him after adjusting his wig one last time.

 

Walking along confidently, Descole found himself leaving behind the hobbling old lady that Paul was disguised at, and growled with annoyance as he slowed down to let him catch up.

 

"You couldn't have disguised yourself as someone younger, more useful?"

 

"No one expects the old lady. Not ever."

 

Descole rolled his eyes.

 

"And besides, if we were walking at the pace you're going, people would definitely think we're up to something. Slow down."

 

"We can't be too slow. We need to get and out as fast as we can so we can do this thing tonight."

 

"Tonight? You're kidding?"

 

"Not at all. Why wait?"

 

"Because there's no time to form an actual plan between then and now, maybe?!" Paul stared up at the man/young boy, confusion and slight horror clear in his face.

 

"Of course there is."

 

“You’re delusional! How the hell are we supposed to plan all of this by tonight? The bank shuts at 9, and it’s nearly 4 o’clock now.”

 

“Have a little faith, Paul. I know what I’m doing.”

 

"I'm seriously beginning to doubt that."

 

Paul sighed deeply, stumping along with his walking stick and glaring at the ground.

 

"If we get arrested, I will hate you forever."

 

"Do you even have long left to live, old lady?"

 

“I’ll have longer than you if you don’t do something about that attitude, ginger snap.”

 

“We won’t get arrested.” Descole said, choosing to ignore Paul’s comment, or threat, rather. “We have plenty of time to plan this. It won’t be the first time I’ve robbed someone blind.”

 

"Hmph. I still don't trust you..." Paul pointed with his cane to the large building looming on the other side of the road, grimacing. "So how do you suppose we go about this, then?"

 

“Simple,” Descole said, handing Paul a £20 note, “You open an account and make a deposit, but act like you’re worried about it. Ask whoever is helping you about the security and if your money will be safe.”

 

“Won’t that sound a little bit suspicious?”

 

“No. You’re a worried old lady. It’s perfectly believable. As long as your acting skills are up for it.”

 

"You think my acting skills *aren't* up to it? Hah."

 

 Paul snatched the money, an evil smirk flashing across his face that would make any old lady look like a witch. He began to hobble more determinedly towards the bank, still in character.

 

"Keep up, won't you?" He called back, chuckling under his breath.

 

“Slow down, grandma, you might break something,” Descole grinned as he did a quick jog to keep up with his new found partner in crime.

 

“I’ll break your face if you don’t shut up, sonny boy.”

 

"You couldn't even reach."

 

"Wanna bet?"

 

Paul waved his cane threateningly before hobbling into the bank, getting fully into character.

 

As soon as they entered the building, a young man walked up to them.

 

“Hello, how can I help you this fine day?”

 

“”Oh, yes, hello,” Paul said, donning his old lady voice, “I would like to open an account and make a deposit.”

 

“Well I can help you with that. Follow me.”

 

Descole hummed to himself; he wouldn't be able to deny that Paul carried off the disguise pretty well. He thought he could do better, though. Following the young man through to a desk, Paul made himself look a little nervous, fidgeting with his bag and cardigan as they sat.

 

"So, that's an account in the name of...?"

 

"Jean... Oh, you'll want my full name, silly me... Jeanette Darling."

 

“Okay... That’s fine,” The man said as he typed.

 

“I have a few worries, though. Will my money be safe here? You see, I’ve had my money stolen by banks before, and I want to make sure it won’t happen again.”

 

"Ah, no need to worry about that here, madam. We have several layers of security protecting our honoured clientele's vaults." The man assured as he tapped in other information, "Code pads with individual codes for each vault, your typical motion sensors, guards... You've no chance of losing your money."

 

The man smiled warmly, if a little patronisingly, at what he thought was an innocent old lady.

 

“Aaaaand... Your account is all set up. Did you say you wanted to make a deposit? Would that be cash or a cheque?”

 

“Oh, cash, thank you.” Paul held up the £20 note and the man took it.

 

“I’ll get that taken care of for you. Thank you for banking with us.”

 

"And thank you, young man."

 

Paul stood again, nodded a goodbye, and began to hobble out, Descole by his side. The second they were outside, the former smirked.

 

"What was that about acting?"

 

“I must admit, you did a very good job. That man had absolutely no idea.”

 

“You’re damn right I did a good job. You couldn’t do any of this without me, so count yourself lucky.”

 

“Let’s get back to yours, we have planning to do.”

 

Paul led the way this time, not nearly as bothered about keeping up the disguise now the job was done. He chuckled to himself.

 

"Y'know, I'm starting to think this might be possible."

 

“Of course it’s possible. Nothing could possibly stop us since that stupid bank worker practically handed over the security details on a silver platter.”

 

"Well as you said, he thought I was a harmless old lady. Hah! Anything but."

 

Paul smirked, opening the door to his flat and entering, pulling off the wig and mask with a sigh of relief.

 

Descole was careful not to remove his disguise just yet. He trusted Paul to an extent, but not so much as to reveal his actual identity. He quickly grabbed his mask from where he had put it and placed it back over his face.

 

"Oh, don't tell me you wear that thing 24/7, mate. I bet you sleep in it, don't you?" Paul rolled his eyes, speaking dryly. When Descole didn't respond, he gasped. "You do, don't you?"

 

“You can never be too careful. I have more enemies than I do friends, so I’m not about to risk letting people find out who I am. If one person found out, they all would. You’d be surprised how fast something like that can spread,” Descole admitted, faking a laugh.

 

"Oh, come on. Who am I gonna tell? The police?" Paul chuckled, "I'd kinda like to know who I'm sharing this cash with."

 

He rolled his eyes again, shrugging off the cardigan he'd been wearing and tossing it onto a pile of clothes in the hallway. Descole made a face, ignoring Paul's comments.

 

"How can you live in this pigsty?"

 

“I can live just fine, so unless you wanna clean it up yourself, I’d suggest you get used to it.”

 

“I suppose it’s not completely... unbearable.”

 

“That’s the spirit! Not that I asked you, but still.”

 

"Anyway... On with planning."

 

Descole picked his way over the various messes and into the kitchen, spreading out the blueprints again. "That man told you they have guards, so I think your role in this should be obvious. You do have a guard costume under all this mess, correct?"

 

“’Course I do. No self respecting disguise master would find himself without one.”

 

“Excellent. Then you are to infiltrate their forces, say it’s your first shift or something. Then you get them out of the way, by any means necessary. And that’s when I come in.”

 

"What'll you do, then?"

 

"Well, once you've gotten rid of the human element, I can easily take out the motion sensors. Then it's a matter of actually getting into the vault."

 

"Easy! I've got just the thing!" Paul smirked, delving into a drawer and pulling out a device, "This thing guesses passwords nearly instantly."

 

“Brilliant! Where did you even find such a device?”

 

“Eh, ya meet a few people, ya do a few favours, ya get things.”

 

“Favours?”

 

“Let’s not get into that.”

 

"Alright then. We're already more prepared than I have been on successful heists. I'd suggest sleeping if you want to be fully functioning for this."

 

"I'm not gonna say no to more sleep."

 

Pretty much as soon as he spoke, Paul got to his feet and headed for his bedroom. Within minutes he was sound asleep, snoring loudly.

 

Descole rolled his eyes at the noise, then headed through to the living room to catch some shut-eye on the tidier of the two sofas.


	2. Chapter 2

He managed to sleep for a couple of hours before he was woken up. His eyes opened to see Paul standing over him.

 

“Wakey wakey, mask face. It’s time.”

 

"'Mask face'? Is that an insult, or a nickname...?" Descole yawned, stretching and sitting up, "Either way, I'd thank you not to use it again."

 

He smirked and rubbed his hands together, ready to become a few hundred thousand pounds richer, at least.

 

“It’s an observation, so as long as I’m observing the mask, I’ll continue to comment on it.”

 

“I suppose I’ll have to get used to it then, because the mask is staying on.”

 

"You're a bore." Paul muttered.

 

"If you say so. Now, on with the plans. Guard outfit."

 

"Don't even try and boss me around, mate, it's not gonna work."

 

“Just do it. We need to do this now.”

 

“Fine. But that’s the only time you tell me what to do.”

 

“Unless the situation calls for it.”

 

Paul sighed, glaring darkly and disappearing to get changed. Meanwhile, Descole went over the plans one last time, sure he hadn't missed anything out.

 

"Y' happy now?" Paul's grumpy tones preceded him as he walked into the kitchen, dressed as a very tall, athletically built guard.

 

“I’m ecstatic, can’t you tell?” Descole replied in a monotone voice.

 

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.”

 

“What do you want me to say? ‘You look wonderful, darling’?”

 

Paul faked a laugh.

 

"Let's get out of here." Descole said dryly, rolling up the plans and shoving them in his bag.

 

"Hm." Paul led the way out of the flat, walking considerably faster than Descole now he wasn't an old lady.

 

Descole clenched his fists. He wasn’t enjoying any part of this; Paul was an insufferable joke of a criminal, and once this was over, Descole would be glad to be rid of him. If only he didn’t have to give him half of the money...

 

Paul was having similar thoughts himself. He was thinking of just how much of an annoyance Descole was, and how he'd like to show him just what he thought of his prissy ways. But he'd given his word, and Paul never went back on a promise. Then again, if he twisted his meaning... A smirk settled on the man's face.

 

The bank was silent, with the exception of the guards’ murmuring. All the lights were off, and it was the perfect time for the plan to come to fruition.

 

"When it's clear, I'll signal you. You'll know what it is." Paul said before turning and entering the bank, confidence in his stride.

 

He walked up to a guard, muttering an apology for being late. Checking his pocket, he allowed himself a smile before throwing a marble down one hall. His attempt to isolate the guards worked and one went off to investigate the sound. Paul followed close behind.

 

With precision, Paul struck the guard in the back of the head, knocking him out in a swift blow. He chuckled, and then hid the body in a cupboard. Speedily, he repeated the process for every other guard, taking out each one before they could suspect a thing. Signalling Descole with a few flashes of his torch, Paul reclined against the main desk, looking pleased with himself.

 

"Skilfully done, if I do say so myself."

 

Descole saw the signal and knew that it was his turn to spring into action. He went over to meet Paul and they went over the plan to get inside the vault one last time.

 

"Alright, I'll keep an eye out here, and start deactivating everything. You get down there and unlock the door."

 

Paul smirked triumphantly at his partner in crime, heading to the guard station.

 

"Don't boss me around."

 

"An eye for an eye, Mr Mask."

 

"I'm going this way because I want to. Not because you told me to."

 

"Uh huh."

 

"I knew I needed to go this way anyway. You didn't need to tell me."

 

"Well I was just making sure."

 

Descole huffed and headed towards the door to the vault.

 

Paul looked at the computers controlling everything and grinned. They were still unlocked. With a few taps of the keyboard, the motion sensors were deactivated, and all he had left to do was wait until Descole started putting the bags of money outside the vault door.

 

"What an idiot..." He cackled a little, smirking.

 

Descole quickly managed to get every last bag of money out of the vault. Paul watched him through the security camera intently, waiting for the signal that the job was done.

 

Descole faced the camera and put his thumb up. That was the signal.

 

Without missing a beat, Paul pressed a few buttons and the motion sensors were reactivated. Alarms went off and sirens rang out throughout the building.

 

What the...?!"

 

Descole looked around, utterly bemused, and suddenly very angry. He looked back to the camera to make several rude gestures, but Paul was no longer there to see them. Having used Descole's moment of confusion to sprint down the hall, he was now in possession of two of the large money bags.

 

Paul snorted with laughter as he gave a thumbs up to Descole, and then headed to a window.

 

"Thanks for the help, Mr Mask!" He smirked, opening the umbrella-turned-handheld-helicopter he'd taken from his flat as he jumps out the window, "Enjoy prison!"

 

“You son of a bitch!” Descole shouted, but to no avail. Paul was long gone.

 

He was left alone and the police were going to show up at any minute.

 

Paul grinned, high enough above the bank to see the police closing in already. He dropped onto the roof with a cackling sound, wondering how long he should leave it before he busted out the other man and got the rest of their money. He knew Descole would find the entire thing juvenile and ‘too risky’, but he wouldn’t give one iota. Plus, he could do without another enemy.

 

He sighed, thinking he’d left it long enough as he saw the police sirens in the distance, and opened the door to the roof, shouting into the dark.

 

“Hey, Descole! I got your money right here!”

 

“What?! Where are you?!” Descole called, sounding understandably angry.

 

“I’m on the roof! Come on up, pal. The air’s lovely.”

 

Paul could hear footsteps getting quickly closer, and he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Descole came speeding up the stairs with his fists clenched.

 

“Glad you could join m..”

 

Paul was silenced with a swift punch to the nose.

 

"OUCH!" Paul couldn't help but let out a sound of utter pain. Holding a now bleeding nose, he looked up at Descole, flinching away a little.

 

"If you _ever_ try something that immature again, I will personally see to it that every waking moment of your life is a living hell." Descole threatened, holding Paul by his collar.

 

"Okay, okay, I get it, yeesh. No jokes for Mr Grumpy Mask." Paul responded, his voice sounding nasally.

 

“And _don’t_ call me that!”

 

“Don’t wear the mask then, mate.”

 

Despite the mask, Paul could tell that Descole was absolutely fuming. If hidden looks could kill, he would be dead 10 times over by now.

 

Before Descole could retort, the sound of sirens cut him off.

 

"Oops, time to leave. Coming?" Paul twirled his umbrella handily and picked up a sack of money, throwing the other one to the masked man.

 

"I'll see you back at the flat, Mary Poppins."

 

"Practically perfect in every way? Why, I'm touched."

 

Paul smirked and activated the umbrella-copter again, leaping haphazardly off the building with a cackle.

 

“How do you expect me to get back unseen?” Descole shouted after him.

 

“You’re a smart fella, I’m sure you can figure something out!” Paul called back, his voice getting fainter as he got further and further away.

 

Descole rolled his eyes, then glanced around.

 

"Good thing I know how to jump." He muttered to himself, glancing down to see all of the police now inside the building.

 

Taking a run up, he leapt off the roof of the bank, landing a little lower on the roof of the building next to it. It wasn't the most direct route, but it was discrete, and safer than walking on the roads.

 

Needless to say, Paul arrived back at the flat a lot sooner than Descole. It was a good 30 minutes before Descole eventually showed up.

 

He knocked loudly on the front door.

 

“Who is it?” Paul joked.

 

“Let me in you pointy-haired prick!”

 

"Language, Dessie. My ears are sensitive." Paul quoted him, smirking as he opens the door, "Get your arse inside before someone sees."

 

Descole stalked in with a similar look to that of a lion watching its prey, but Paul was unaffected; too tired to care.

 

“Why did you do that?” Descole asked with a considerably fed up sounding tone.

 

“Do what?”

 

“You know full well what! We could have gotten in, gotten out, and no one would have found out until they opened the bloody safe! But now, because you wanted to have a bit a laugh, they already know that they’ve been robbed, and they’ll enlist help as soon as they can! We’re done for! Done for!”

 

"Oh you drama queen... Did it not occur to you once that the doors on those safes can be triggered into lockdown? I worked my computer magic; the second all the motion signatures are inside the vault, it'll lock on them. Harmless fun." Paul grinned widely, opening a sack of money and starting to check its validity, "They’d ‘ve found out eventually anyway, and it's not like they're going to suspect _me_ of a bank heist."

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Well, if anybody, they’re going to think you’re the prime suspect, so they’ll come after you.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

“They’ll come after you.”

 

Descole twitched a little, glaring at Paul all over again.

 

"If they find me, I'm turning you in too."

 

"Good thing they won't find you, then."

 

"You're making no sense, you bastard of a man. Stop talking in circles for once in your life!"

 

“Hey! Hey! Don’t get your knickers in a twist, darlin’,” Paul said, holding his hands up in defence, “They’re not going to find you because you’re staying here. If they don’t suspect me, they won’t look here. Now do you get it?”

 

Descole folded his arms, then sat down grumpily.

 

"Fine."

 

"Not gonna thank me?"

 

"For what?! First you annoy me, then you give me a heart attack, then you make me walk back here! What possible reason do I have to thank you?!"

 

"Oh, y'know, the tea and toast, the fact I am sheltering you, the whole 'I didn't actually abandon you' thing... I deserve more credit."

 

"You deserve absolutely zero credit for what you did to me. I was this close to being arrested."

 

"But you weren't."

 

"I could have been!"

 

"But you weren't."

 

Descole facepalmed and let out an exasperated sigh.

 

Paul imitated the movement, then smirked.

 

"Come on, at least we got the money, right? We're rich now!" He tried, throwing the unopened bag of cash to Descole with a grin.

 

Descole caught the bag. It was heavy. He smiled to himself.

 

"We are rich."

 

Paul began to yawn.

 

"Come on, let's get some sleep. We can count it all up in the morning."

 

Descole nodded, feeling a yawn creep up on him as well.

 

"I'm bushed." Paul commented, stretching and standing to leave the room with his bag of money.

 

"At least you didn't have to run home..." Descole remarked, but less coldly than usual, kicking off his shoes.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Descole awoke on the sofa feeling oddly calm. He had almost forgotten that he had just committed a bank heist and had nearly been arrested.

 

Paul woke up a little earlier than Descole, and when he heard the latter waking, he decided he might as well put on the kettle. Who knew what this prissy little fusspot was like in the morning?

 

While he waited for the kettle to boil, he decided he'd turn on the radio to see if there was anything on the news about what happened last night, and to see who was investigating it. Descole got up from the sofa, rubbing his eyes, and stepped into the kitchen, joining Paul at the table.

 

"Good morning, Sunshine." Paul welcomed dryly, pushing over a mug of tea.

 

A groan of tiredness was his only response from the still-masked, half-asleep man.

 

"'Thanks for the tea, Paolo!' Oh, no problem at all."

 

"Thanks the for tea, _Paul_." Descole made sure to emphasise that last word.

 

"Hey, I didn't even comment on your mask, but you still call me Paul?"

 

"Your name is Paul, so I shall continue to call you Paul."

 

"What's your real name then, so I can call you that?"

 

"Don't start with me."

 

"I already started. Look, who am I going to tell? It's not exactly like I can waltz into Scotland Yard with that information, can I?" Paul reasoned through a mouthful of toast.

 

"Close your mouth when you're eating."

 

“Sorry, your highness,” Paul said sarcastically after swallowing his toast, “I could imagine you’d be fine with being called that.”

 

“It does have a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?” Descole smirked.

 

Paul groaned. This man really was the epitome of vanity.

 

"Wow... I was kidding, but... Wow." He muttered, shaking his head.

 

"You're the one who suggested it. I simply agreed."

 

Descole shrugged and sipped his own tea, making a face before adding two extra teaspoons of sugar.

 

Their silence allowed them to actually listen to the radio now. The new broadcast had only just started, and the first item covered was, of course, the bank robbery.

 

“Breaking news; the Bank of London was robbed last night. One of the vaults, belonging to Mr Fredrich Beluga, was broken into and two large bags of money were stolen.”

 

Paul and Descole smirked simultaneously here, raising their mugs of tea in a mock toast.

 

"As of yet, there are no confirmed suspects, though police are reported to have suspicions. Investigations are ongoing, but anybody around the area between midnight and 5 am who may have seen anything suspicious is encouraged to come forward. Any information leading to an arrest will be rewarded generously."

 

“Did you see anyone out and about around that time?” Paul asked, obviously feeling rather smug.

 

“Why no, I don’t believe I did,” Descole replied, feeling equally as smug.

 

“We are just receiving word,” the man on the radio said, “that the police have once again enlisted the help of Professor Hershel Layton. Given his track record, we expect that this case should be solved in no time.”

 

Both faces dropped, and there was a joint groan of annoyance.

 

"Why Layton? Of all the people!" Paul despaired, hitting his forehead, "Doesn't he have a class to teach?!"

 

"You'd think, wouldn't you...?" Descole muttered bitterly.

 

“We’re done for. There’s no way that Layton won’t find us out. God, I hate that man.”

 

“I’d say that we make a run for it, but given that it’s only just been reported, it would look rather suspicious.”

 

Paul finished his tea with annoyance, then glanced to the bags of money.

 

"Well... I have a hidden safe. But Layton would probably find that too. He's such a know it all..." He huffed, shaking his head.

 

"We need to get rid of all the evidence we can around here, at least. You should probably get rid of the guard outfit."

 

“Seriously? I spent ages making that. I can’t just get rid of it. What if we just say it’s a Halloween costume?”

 

“Who dresses as a security guard for Halloween?”

 

“Not being funny, mate, but you don’t really have the right to judge people’s Halloween costumes, given what you wear on a regular day.”

 

Descole huffed, adjusting his cape with an offended air.

 

"You either get rid of the outfit, or we get thrown in jail, don't pass go, lose _over_ £200. Your choice."

 

He finished his tea with a sigh, rubbing his temple.

 

The now uncomfortable and slightly angry silence was cut by a knock on the door. Both Paul and Descole looked up, eyes wide and filled with panic.

 

“Quick, hide!” Paul told Descole.

 

Descole actually did as he was told without argument and ran to the bedroom.

 

Paul quickly dumped Descole's mug into the sink, then looked around for things that would give them away. Of course, the money! Of all the things to have nearly forgotten... A louder knock made Paul jump as he threw the money into the bedroom, not noticing when one hit Descole in the face.

 

"Alright, alright, I'm coming!"

 

He expected to find a few police men when he opened the door, but he only came face to face with Professor Layton himself. Paul wasn’t sure whether this was better or worse.

 

“Oh! Hello, Layton! How can I help you?” That was a mistake, he sounded too happy.

 

"Paul, good to see you." Layton said cheerily, tipping his hat.

 

Paul tried not to look more suspicious than normal, adjusting his facial features to be a little more annoyed.

 

"It's Don Paolo, we've been over this. What do you want?"

 

“I was just wondering if you had any information regarding last night’s bank robbery. After all, you don’t live too far away from the bank, so you might have seen something.”

 

“Nope. Didn’t see anything. I was sat here watching TV the whole time.”

 

"Ah." Layton hummed, "And no murmurings in the criminal underworld as to whom it was?"

 

"Hah, you think I associate with them? I am a higher class of criminal, thank you very much."

 

Layton took in his surroundings, noting how dirty they were. “Higher class?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

“May I just ask, why are there two cups in your sink? Have you had a guest?”

 

“No, ya know me. I like my tea as much as the next man.”

 

Layton raised an eyebrow, surprised at this statement.

 

"I recall you being fonder of coffee..."

 

"Yeah, well, that stuff's expensive. I'm not exactly as rich as that bloke who got robbed."

 

“Still, would you mind if I took a look around? I’m not saying you did the crime, but I’ve just got to make sure.”

 

“The place is a bit of a mess at the moment, so maybe I should tidy up first...”

 

“No, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

Paul began to panic, but refused to let it show.

 

"Sure, uh, come in, Layton." He raised his voice ever so slightly, hoping Descole would hear him.

 

He led the esteemed professor inside as slowly as he could without seeming suspicious.

 

Layton thoroughly snooped around the flat, checking every nook and cranny for evidence or anything that might be linked to the bank robbery.

 

Paul, meanwhile, was listening intently to see if Descole was making a noise. He couldn’t hear anything, so assumed that Descole was well hidden.

 

"Happy I'm not involved now, Layton?" Paul huffed a few minutes later, bored of the judgemental glances Layton was giving to his flat.

 

"Hm... I'll just check a little more..." Layton hummed thoughtfully.

 

He was getting closer to the bedroom. He’d soon checked every room but that one. Paul knew they’d be found out eventually, but he kept the charade up for as long as he could.

 

"May I, Paul?" Layton indicated the bedroom as he spoke, smiling politely.

 

Paul groaned to himself and nodded, trying to think of a way out of this situation. Maybe he'd take a bribe...? No, he was too 'gentlemanly' for that...

 

"Yeah, whatever, Layton."

 

Hershel opened the door, but there was nothing to see other than a bed and a few other pieces of furniture.

 

Paul breathed a sigh of relief, but soon felt panicked again when he saw that the window was still shut and locked, which meant that Descole was still somewhere in the room. There was no other way out.

 

Layton withheld a comment at the horrible state of the room, picking his way over some empty instant noodle packages and another pile of clothes. Paul lounged on the doorframe, ready to block any quick exit on the professor's part. He watched as he opened up closets, and then finally knelt to look under the bed.

 

The sight that greeted him would have been almost laughable if it weren’t for the current circumstances.

 

Curled up underneath the bed was Descole. He was curled around the bags of money, uselessly trying to hide them.

 

"Ah, Layton. Fancy meeting you here."

 

"Descole...? I thought you died." Layton stared, blinked, and then continued to stare.

 

"Too late to say 'surprise'?" Descole responded dryly, sighing.

 

Descole crawled out from under the bed and straightened out his cape.

 

“I suppose you were the one that robbed the bank?” Hershel sighed.

 

Descole looked towards Paul. He knew he was done for, but he could drag Paul down with him if he wanted.

 

Paul looked back, highly uncomfortable. He knew that this time Layton wasn't going to let him off easily, and it seemed to him like he and Descole had a past too. Neither of them were in his good books, that much was obvious.

 

"No, of course I didn't." Descole drawled sarcastically, "I just decided to sleep under this bloke's bed for fun."

 

Layton sighed disappointedly, looking to Paul now.

 

"And you helped, I assume?"

 

“Layton, I’m offended. Do you really think robbing a bank is my style? Give me some credit.”

 

“So you’re just harbouring a criminal?”

 

“Um...”

 

“Hold it right there!” A voice called from the door way.

 

Paul and Descole looked as confused as each other, and similarly scared as an authoritative man stomps in.

 

"Nice work, Layton, I'll take it from here. Now, you two, you're under arrest by Inspector Chelmey of Scotland Yard."

 

“Chelmey? What are you doing here?” Layton asked, seemingly just as confused as the other two men in the room.

 

“I followed you here. I knew you’d try and investigate this on your own, so I thought I’d better come along and help.”

 

"Ah, well, uhm... Thank you." Layton said, seeming a little reluctant.

 

"You're welcome, Layton. Now, Don Paolo, we've been searching for you for how long now? But this time you've slipped up! Hah."

 

Chelmey proceeded to read out Paul's rights, looking victorious.

 

“Yeah, whoopty doo, good for you,” Paul said extremely sarcastically.

 

“And who do we have here? Could this be the infamous Jean Descole? Everyone believed you were dead. You evaded the police for years, but now we’ve got you.”

 

Descole gave a long sigh, regretting ever doing this heist.

 

"Congratulations. It seems it's all over..."

 

Chelmey rolled his eyes as he clapped on another set of handcuffs. Then, his curiosity got the better of him.

 

"Now, let's see who's been hiding under this mask for so long, shall we?" He harrumphed, chuckling a little.

 

Unseen by the inspector, Layton sighed a little, adjusting his hat and taking his leave quietly.

 

Chelmey reached his hand out towards the mask and Descole backed away as much as he could. Eventually he hit a wall and there was nowhere else to go. He had to face the reality and show everyone who he was. There was no hiding anymore.

 

With a look of someone who'd finally captured their quarry, Chelmey lifted off the mask. Looking back with a mixture of despair and rage was Desmond Sycamore. Paul let out a sound of amazement and shock, contrasting the Inspector's noise of confusion.

 

"It's _you_! The Sycamore bloke!"

 

“Professor Desmond Sycamore. Who would have thought that it was you behind all this?” Chelmey said rather patronisingly.

 

“Well maybe a competent police officer would have figured it out.” Desmond replied.

 

Despite everything, this would make Paul snort with laughter. He smirked, then remembered he's about to be arrested and made a face.

 

"Well then, we need not worry about your menace anymore, do we?" Chelmey growled, obviously offended.

 

"So it seems."

 

“Right, you two, let’s go. I’ve got a couple of cells with your names on them.”

 

Chelmey led the two handcuffed men out of the flat and towards the police car waiting outside for them. There were two more officers stood by the car, obviously serving as backup in case one of the criminals decided to make a run for it.

 

Paul grumbled under his breath, regretting ever meeting Descole and agreeing to this heist. He was none too gently coerced into a police car, grumbling all the while.

 

Descole remained deathly silent for the whole journey and he stared at his feet the whole time. To Paul it didn’t look like he was planning an escape, if anything, it looked like he had given up completely, like he had accepted defeat and greeted it with a cold handshake.

 

"Oi, you two, out." Chelmey ordered when they reached the station, still looking smug.

 

Word must have gotten out about both of their arrests, because there were crowds all around as they stepped out of the car, journalists snapping shots and clamouring for statements.

 

"I'll give you a statement alright! Piss off!" Paul shouted, the people not helping his mood.

 

Most of the journalists were trying to get Desmond’s attention. Descole had been one of the most elusive criminals the country had ever seen, and they’d be damned if they didn’t get an article for their respective newspapers and magazines.

 

Desmond was keeping his head down, teeth gritted, but the call of one journalist was the straw that broke the camel's back.

 

"Desmond Sycamore! How does it feel now that everyone knows who you are?"

 

The question wasn't what caught his attention, more the voice asking it. He looked up, and saw Emmy Altava looking at him, looking half disappointed, half smug. As split as ever, it seemed. He shook his head.

 

"I think you well know the feeling." He said bitingly, his bitterness at the situation overflowing and lashing out of its own accord.

 

But still she persisted.

 

“How does it feel to be caught after all these years? What else have done? How did you survive the collapse of the Azran sanctuary?”

 

It took every ounce of strength within Desmond not to bite Emmy’s head of. He had never liked her all that much in the past, and liked her even less so after finding out she worked for Targent. But now, she was just taking the piss.

 

Desmond now stayed quiet, and instead fixed the woman with a look so cold and so snakelike that shivers ran down her spine. He looked away, the desired effect having occurred, and continued to be pushed into the police station to join Paul.


	4. Chapter 4

"First of all," Chelmey said as they entered the building, "We're gonna ask you two a few questions in order to determine how guilty you both are."

 

"Oh hurrah." Paul said flatly, wanting to fold his arms but being restrained by the cuffs.

 

Desmond didn't respond. He stayed quiet, staring at the floor with an intense gaze, as if he could burn a hole in it.

 

"Alright, you first." Chelmey barked with authority, pointing to Paul.

 

"Oh, I'm honoured, sir." Paul replied in a sing song voice. "Be quiet! You will not speak unless you are answering my questions, do you understand?" "Yeah, sure."

 

Stomping through to a questioning room, Chelmey looked annoyed, Paul observed. Or maybe that was his natural face, and he'd just never noticed it before. He sat down opposite him with a sigh, still annoyed they'd been caught.

 

"Alright, you, state your name for the record."

 

"Don Paolo."

 

"Proper name."

 

Paul sighed, “Paul Topen.”

 

Chelmey had to suppress a snicker and resume his usual serious demeanour.

 

“Where were you at the time of the robbery?”

 

“What? I was in the bank. I thought we’d already established this?”

 

"It's always good to get the words from the mouth of the offender. That way it can't be disputed. Now, how did you break in?"

 

"Hah, like I'm gonna tell you any of that. You might be arresting me, but it doesn't mean for a second I'm gonna be helpful." Paul snapped, restlessly tapping his foot.

 

“I’ll remind you that I have the power to extend your sentence if you continue to be this difficult.”

 

“It’s not like I have a lot to do on the outside anyway.” Paul shrugged.

 

“What if I extend it to a life sentence?”

 

“Just keep trying, mate, you’re not getting anything out of me.”

 

"What if I started adding to your friend's?"

 

"Y'see, that's illegal, and this is on record." Paul smirked, rolling his eyes and shrugging, "Naughty naughty..."

 

Chelmey glared over the table, folding his arms.

 

"A while in the slammer and you'll be begging to tell me."

 

“We’ll see.”

 

Chelmey had had more than enough of Paul by this point, and it was clear that he wouldn’t be able to get any more information out of him. He had confessed already anyway, so he didn’t need to ask any more questions.

 

"Are we done now? I wanna get to prison in time for lunch." Paul asked dryly, his stomach gurgling.

 

"Bring in the other one," Chelmey snapped to one of the officers standing at the door, "Take this one to a holding cell."

 

Following Chelmey’s orders, the other officer directed Paul out of his chair and out of the room. Another one practically shoved Desmond into the room, which very nearly caused him to trip and fall.

 

Desmond shot a dirty glare at the officer, but said nothing, refusing to break his silence for anything.

 

"State your name for the record."

 

"..."

 

"Now, if you please."

 

“...Desmond... Desmond Sycamore.”

 

It had been so long before he had said that name. He had almost forgotten who he really was. All this time he had spent as Jean Descole. There was no one that stood in his way and the only person he had in his company was Raymond. Raymond... How Desmond wished he was still with him.

 

"And you were the mastermind of the heist?"

 

"Yes."

 

Desmond sighed deeply, rubbing his face and closing his eyes. He was in total despair. He'd taken it too far, too many times...

"And the man behind 'Jean Descole'?"

 

"Yes."

 

“You have a lot of crimes under your belt. Kidnapping, robbery, the list goes on. You’re looking at a life sentence, Mr Sycamore.”

 

“I understand.”

 

"Nothing to say in your defence?"

 

"No." Chelmey stared. He thought it was going to be a lot harder than this.

 

"No denying anything?"

 

"No."

 

In truth, Desmond was done fighting, he was done being Jean Descole. He’d stepped over the line, and realised that it was time to stop.

 

“Just take me to jail.”

 

“Very well.”

 

Chelmey called to the other officers to take Desmond away.

 

Desmond stood, a look of defeat about him, and followed the officers with a sigh. He deserved this, he deserved jail, he deserved everything that was about to happen. That was his view on things, at least.

 

He was taken to a small, dank cell. All that was in there was a dirty toilet in the corner and a metal bed with a very thin mattress. Paul was given the cell next to him, which was equally as miserable.

 

"So... We really fucked up, right?" Paul called, knowing the walls were thin enough to be heard through, "Absolutely and totally no way out of this one..."

 

He sighed, rubbing his forehead.

 

“We fucked up spectacularly.” Desmond replied in a sullen voice.

 

“How’re we gonna get out of this one, hey?”

 

“We’re not.”

 

“What?”

 

“We’re not getting out. This has been a long time coming, Paul. We’re staying right here.”

 

“Why do I get the impression you’re not talking about both of us?”

 

"Hmph, I wonder."

 

Paul glared at the wall a little, then realised it would have no effect and slumped against it instead.

 

"Would it kill ya to drop the act for five minutes, mate?" He asked, sick and tired of the dry, snarky tones, especially now he knew who Descole really was.

 

There was no reply. All Paul could hear was the sound of gentle sobs coming through the wall.

 

“Des? Ya alright?”

 

“Everything I did was for spite, for revenge. I felt as if I had no other purpose in life. It was all for nothing in the end. I hurt the people I was supposed to protect. I ruined so many lives.”

 

Desmond’s voice was weak, his words breathed out between sobs. He truly was a broken man.

 

Paul shifted a little in place. He'd never been good in situations like this.

 

"Des, mate... From what I've heard, your life's sucked. I've gone through way less crap than you probably have, and look at me; in the exact same place." He mumbled, bad with emotional things, "You, uh... Probably weren't in the best state of mind...? And you're sorry now..."

 

He made a face. He was bad at comforting people.

 

“Thank you, Paul.” Desmond sniffed.

 

“Hey, we’ll get through this. We’ll stick together, and we’ll be out of here in no time!”

 

“The Inspector said I was looking at a life sentence, Paul.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Paul's face dropped a little, the chance of cheering up his friend (friend? When did that happen?) slipping through his hands.

 

"Well... I... Hey, can't you get it shortened on good behaviour?"

 

"Not when it's _life_. That's like taking away from infinity. I'm a dangerous criminal. I deserve it anyway."

 

Paul sighed, shaking his head a little.

 

"Look, mate, you fucked up, I'm not gonna deny it. But I fucked up too, right? And you're sorry about it now, surely that counts for something, right?"

 

“Sorry means nothing in regards to everything I’ve done.”

 

Paul couldn’t think of anything more to say. He wanted to help Desmond, he really did, but there was nothing he could do other than just be there for him while he served his own sentence.

 

A silence that lasted hours washed over the pair. Neither of them were sure how so much time had passed, but the guards were saying “lights out” which meant that this very hard day had finally come to an end. But for Desmond, there was a lifetime of hard days ahead.

 

"Paolo, I'm fine." Descole said firmly, clenching his fists, not that the other could see.

 

"Now I _know_ you're not; you called me 'Paolo'. Look, mate, we're here for the foreseeable future, you might as well open up now. Or I'll just keep on pestering you..."

 

“You’d keep pestering me no matter what I told you.” Desmond stated as a small smile crept onto his lips.

 

“That may be true, but you should still tell me what’s wrong. Other than the fact that we’re in prison...”

 

Desmond sighed a little, considering whether he should tell him everything or not. What could go wrong? ... Right?

 

"It's-"

 

"If you say 'it's nothing', I will break out of this cell and slap you."

 

“I wasn’t going to say that. It’s just... I feel like saying that I had a rough childhood is too cliché of a back story. And I feel like it doesn’t excuse anything that I’ve done.”

 

“You wanna talk ridiculous back stories? Pal, I’ve got the most ridiculous of them all.”

 

"I doubt it..." Desmond challenged, shaking his head.

 

Paul snorted a little, folding his arms.

 

"Mate, I literally turned to villainy because I was sore about a girl not liking me back." He disclosed, still a little bitter despite everything.

 

"And how does that make you Layton's enemy?"

 

“She was Layton’s girlfriend.”

 

Desmond had to suppress a laugh at this. All of his own problems made perfect sense next to this.

 

“How did you become Layton’s enemy?” Paul asked him.

 

Desmond paused a little before he responded, then sighed and shrugged.

 

"Oh... Sibling rivalry, you, uh, you know how it is..."

 

“Sibling?”

 

“Layton never told you?”

 

“Why would he tell me?”

 

“Fair point.”

 

“But seriously? You’re Layton’s brother?”

 

"Yes. He hardly remembers me like that, though." Desmond muttered, shrugging, "I'm more like 'the annoying person getting in the way of his archaeology career'."

 

He sighed a little, rubbing his temples to try and stave off a headache.

 

“He’d probably forgive you if I’m honest. All that gentlemanly crap he’s always on about isn’t a lie.”

 

“I don’t deserve to be forgiven. He’s better off without a brother.”

 

Before Paul could reply he could hear the footsteps of a prison guard coming down the hallway.

 

"Alright, everyone up! Breakfast time!" The guard called, clapping loudly.

 

Paul sighed, stretching out his legs and standing up.

 

"Finally, some food. I'm starved."

 

“I doubt it’ll be any good.” Desmond said as he pushed himself up and off of the bed.

 

“Still, it’s better than nothing.”

 

Cell by cell, the guards went by, unlocking the doors and escorting the inmates to the cafeteria.

 

As soon as Desmond was allowed out, Paul clapped a hand onto his shoulder.

 

"I really don't think you're as bad as you think. Sure you smashed up some crap, caused a public nuisance for a few years, but haven't we all? You've got nothing to be eternally guilty for, mate."

 

Desmond smiled weakly, “Thanks, Paul.”


	5. Chapter 5

The cafeteria looked like one that would be in a school, but dirtier. The staff members’ faces seemed to be permanently plastered with pissed-off looks. In fairness, who wouldn’t be pissed off if they had to work in a place like this.

 

"Wow, it's as much of a shithole as the cells..." Paul commented, looking distastefully around.

 

Desmond hummed in agreement, stepping over what looked like... A blood stain? They joined the queue for food with nearly identical looks of disdain.

 

"They'd better have toast..."

 

Unfortunately, there was no toast, only a thick, grey, porridge like substance that was pretty much thrown on to the plate.

 

Desmond and Paul sat down at one of the tables and ate their “food”. Desmond struggled to get the goop down his throat, whereas Paul practically inhaled it. He must have been hungry.

 

“How can you eat this garbage?” Desmond bemoaned, pushing it around his plate in desperate attempts to make it seem more appetising.

 

“Well, for one, it’s more palatable when it’s warm. And for two, I’ve survived off toast and Pot Noodles for the past few years; my taste buds are pretty much used to tasteless crap like this.” Paul shrugged, wiping his mouth, “Plus, this isn’t my first time in the clanger; just my longest sentence. By far.”

 

Neither noticed the large prisoner advancing on the table as they were too busy conversing.

 

“Hey. That’s my seat. Get up.” A gruff voice came from behind Desmond, a beefy hand clamping onto his shoulder.

 

Desmond shrugged he hand off of his shoulder and turned to face the man who owned it.

 

“Beg pardon?” He asked.

 

“You’re in my seat. Move.”

 

“I don’t see your name on it.”

 

Before he knew it, Desmond was yanked out of place by his arm and held in place by the monster of a man.

 

"Don't you get funny with me." The man snarled, flecks of spit spraying into Desmond's face, "Get out of here."

 

Desmond sighed, looking somewhat tired as be wiped away the spit. Then, he fixed the man with a look and a smirk.

 

"No."

 

“Did you just say no? To me?”

 

“Well it seems your ears work better than your brain.”

 

Paul wanted to intervene. He knew that Desmond could defend himself, but he didn’t want this going too far.

 

"I was gonna give you a chance." The man spat, then shook his head, "But now you've pissed me off."

 

He took Desmond by the collar, then pulled him away from the table, the hand not holding him curling into a fist.

 

Desmond looked - and felt - terribly placid, calm, apathetic. He knew what would happen next, and he was looking forward to it. His anger at the situation needed an outlet, and this thug had presented him with the perfect one.

 

The man propelled his fist towards Desmond’s face and struck him in the eye.

 

This was the extra log on the fire that fuelled Desmond’s rage. His eyes flashed with anger and he brought his knee up to meet the man’s stomach, which caused him to fall to the floor.

 

Desmond smirked as he watched the man crumble, stumbling backwards a little as he was released. Paul let out a loud whoop, cheering for his friend as the thug rises with a roar of anger.

 

"You piece of shit!"

 

The thug advanced, fists balled, and Desmond fixed himself, ready for a proper fight.

 

 A crowd had now gathered around them, cheering and shouting, most likely rooting for the larger man. Paul was almost tempted to start taking bets, but he didn’t want to risk getting in any more trouble.

 

Desmond was next to throw a punch, aiming directly for the man's nose and making perfect contact. But he was hardly staggered and, grabbing Desmond's hand, he pushed him back, and the shorter of the two went flying into the table which had started the fight. Letting out a quiet sound of pain, Desmond looked at him, only to be pushed back up to standing by Paul.

 

"Get him, mate!"

 

“I’m trying, Paul,” Desmond gasped for breath, “I don’t know if I can do it.”

 

“When have you ever backed down from a fight?”

 

“I’m used to fighting much smaller people.”

 

“Come on, get up. You can do this!”

 

Desmond got to his feet and put his fists up. His face was bloody and bruised, his back was in a considerable amount of pain, but he wasn’t about to let this brute win.

 

The thug threw another punch, but this time Desmond was prepared. He ducked the fist and disregarding safety, hit a quick kick to his stomach, staggering him. Whilst the man was immobilised, Desmond took his chance to punch him again, this time catching him square on the jaw with considerable force.

 

“Yeah! Get ‘im, Des!” Paul shouted.

 

The man regained his composure and flung his fists about wildly, missing Desmond each time. Desmond took this opportunity to strike a final blow. He punched the man in the face one last time, which caused him to fall to the ground.

 

The crowd that had gathered all cheered loudly, amazed that such a puny looking man could take down the biggest brute in the prison.

 

"Nice one, mate!" Paul congratulated, clapping Desmond on the shoulder.

 

Wincing at the blow against his injuries, Desmond looked to Paul with a small, victorious chuckle.

 

“Well, I’d say that he isn’t going to be bothered about his seat anymore,” Desmond laughed.

 

“Not unless he wants another beating from a professor. Must be a bit embarrassing for him. Poor bloke.”

 

"Oi! What's going on here, then?" An authoritative voice called above the racket.

 

Desmond's eyes widened. In the adrenaline rush, he'd forgotten totally about the prison guards.

 

"Someone want to explain why this one's unconscious?"

 

Both Desmond and Paul stayed silent as they nonchalantly sat back down. They began to eat what was left of their meals, hoping that they would get away with not being talked to by a guard.

 

The crowd quickly dispersed, scuttling away to their own - now stone cold - food. No one wanted to get on the wrong side of this new guy now he'd shown his skills.

 

"Mate... You're in proper deep shit once that bloke wakes up." Paul warned, voice hushed.

 

"Like they'll believe someone as small as me could take him down." Desmond returned with a smirk.

 

“These guys don’t take chances. If they think you’ve done the slightest thing wrong, you’re in for it.”

 

“It’ll be fine. Don’t worry, Paul.”

 

The guards were stalking through the room, like predators looking for the weakest prey. Desmond remained calm, but Paul was struggling not to panic.

 

"Stop looking so suspicious, or they'll be sure to question us." Desmond whispered quickly as he managed to force down the last of his meal.

 

Paul nodded a little jerkily, then started to finish his own meal, glancing around every so often.

 

“Who can tell me what happened here?” One of the guards called.

 

Nobody dared speak out of fear.

 

“If no one tells me what happened, you’ll all be made to clean the employee toilets.”

 

There was a collective shudder here; no one liked cleaning those horrific things. Paul finished his meal with a sigh and began to watch one guard out of the corner of his eye. Desmond was half-glaring at the other inmates, as if daring them to say something.

 

One man, who was sat in the corner of the room on his own, eventually did say something. He was around about the same height as Desmond and had wild dark blonde hair and maroon eyes.

 

"It was him. The new bloke." He muttered, voice barely audible to anyone but the guard near him, "I suggest him and his mate there should be the ones scrubbing loos."

 

Desmond bit the inside of his cheek in annoyance, but otherwise portrayed no annoyance when a guard near him tapped him on the shoulder.

 

He turned around to try and locate the man that had ratted him out. He came face to face with someone he knew he recognised and a pair of eyes that were staring daggers at him.

 

“ _Bronev_.” He hissed to himself.

 

"You what? Who's he, mate?" Paul asked, but before Desmond could answer, a guard pulled him from the table.

 

"This way, then, troublemaker."

 

"How are you taking one person's word as gospel? Especially someone like _him_."

 

“No one else was going to say anything. We know how much of a nuisance you can be, and quite frankly, I don’t like ya.”

 

“That’s hardly fair.”

 

“Be quiet.”

 

Desmond clenched his jaw as he was marched out of the room. Paul watched him go with slight fear for his own life now that the good fighter of their pair was gone. He'd have to watch what he said, but for now, who was this Bronev bloke who had ratted him out?

 

He decided to investigate now that the tension in the room had dissolved.

 

Bronev was still sat on his own table in the corner of the room, eating his food and looking as calm as humanly possible.

 

Paul picked through the quiet room, then sat down opposite Bronev with a huff. He folded his arms and fixed him with a look.

 

"What happened to camaraderie of prisoners, eh? I thought it was us against the guards." He commented, raising an eyebrow.

 

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s every man for himself. I’ve been here a lot longer than you, I’ve learned to fend for myself.”

 

“Fair enough, but he hadn’t even done anything to you. He hadn’t even breathed a word to you.”

 

“Hah. That man is more an inconvenience to me than you know. I’ll be glad to see the back of him for good. Maybe then I can finally get a good shot on him.”

 

Paul looked taken aback for a moment, wondering quite what Desmond could have done to so spectacularly piss off this old man at some point.

 

“What did he do?”

 

“That’s a long story I’d rather now get in to, and it’s quite frankly none of your business.”

 

“I’d say it is my business, you’ve just got my friend in trouble.”

 

“I really don’t care how close you two are, thanks. Now get lost; I’m eating.”

 

“You’re really just kinda pushing it around your plate.” Paul observed for a moment, raising an eyebrow, “Just tell me what he did; who am I going to tell, really?”

 

Bronev just gave him a look that made him look like the physical embodiment of fed up.

 

“Or I could just ask him when I next see him. Depends what viewpoint you want me to hear.”

 

“Well he won’t tell you either. Keep your abnormally large nose out of other people’s business.” Bronev snapped, returning to his meal.

 

“Oh, you’re one to talk about nose sizes, mate. What’s that on your face, a shark fin?”

 

Bronev remained silent. He obviously had no desire to continue this conversation and hoped that Paul would feel the same and leave him alone.

 

But Paul didn’t and wouldn’t. He needed answers. He had to look out for his friend as it was clear that nobody else was going to.

 

“Look, mate, all I wanna know is how he annoyed you. That’s literally it.” Paul pushed, folding his arms.

 

No response from Bronev, save from him picking up his empty plate and standing.

 

“Hey! No one ever tell you it’s rude to walk away from someone when they’re talking to you?”

 

“Did no one ever tell you that it’s rude to ask about things that have nothing to do with you?”

 

“Well, frankly, no. So come on, tell me.”

 

Bronev sighed with annoyance and stalked off, but Paul was quick to pursue him, closely following him as he left the canteen.

 

He stopped in his tracks.

 

You’re not going to give up on this, are you?”

 

“No, I am not.”

 

Bronev sighed again.

 

“I will give you one piece of information and one piece only, then you must ask that brat anything else you want to know.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“That good for nothing hell raiser... He’s my son.”

 

Bronev didn’t give Paul a chance to respond as he walked away as soon as he finished the last word in his sentence.

 

Paul stared as the man stalked off, trying to process the new information. Blinking, he scratched his head and then decided to go and find Desmond to question him about all of this.

 

“What the hell...?” He muttered to himself, trying to judge the similarities between the two men.

 

Desmond was still busy scrubbing the toilets, though. He had already cleaned most of them, but still had a fair few to go. He cursed Bronev for getting him in to this mess. Then again, it hadn’t been the first time that he’d proved himself and inconvenience.

 

Upon not finding Desmond, Paul decided to wait for him back in his cell, not wanting to cause any ruckuses.

 

“I can’t believe that bloke’s Des’s dad...” He hummed, rubbing his head and making a face.

 

He sat down and sighed, the room feeling nastily cold.

 

Despite him being on his own for the majority of his life, he suddenly felt lonely. The past few days had provided him with a friend, albeit through some less than ordinary circumstances.


	6. Chapter 6

Desmond only returned to his cell a few hours later, grumbling and smelling horribly of toilet bleach. Paul left his cell to join him.

 

“Those guards are _animals_.” He grumbled, looking disgusted.

 

“Have fun?” Paul asked, trying to be funny.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Alright, alright, just joking?”

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a filthy bathroom. And I’ve seen yours.”

 

“Yeesh, must have been nasty.” Paul said dryly, shaking his head.

 

“It was.”

 

Paul sighed and tried to segue onto his subject.

 

“So, uh, who was that bloke that dobbed you in?”

 

“The only word I could use to describe him would be ‘arsehole’.”

 

“I see that, but who is he? And why do you both hate each other?”

 

“I don’t really want to talk about that, Paul. I’m tired.”

 

“It’s not even dinner time yet, mate. It isn’t that tiring to just talk...” Paul pressed, rubbing his chin.

 

“You’d be surprised. Now just... Be quiet for a while...”

 

Desmond closed his eyes, exhausted by the fight and cleaning.

 

“You know I can’t be quiet, Des. Just part of my nature.

 

Desmond sighed and covered his face with his arms.

 

“Can you not just tell me? Is it embarrassing? Did you do something really bad?”

 

“Look, Paul, just leave it...” Desmond muttered, not looking up.

 

Paul shook his head, wondering if revealing what he already knew would help at all. He shook Desmond’s shoulder a little first.

 

“C’mon, mate, you can tell me.”

 

Desmond stayed silent.

 

“I know he’s your dad.”

 

“What?”

 

“He told me.”

 

Desmond sat up and practically stared daggers at Paul, obviously not happy about him knowing this information.

 

“How long did you badger _him_ for?” Desmond snapped, eyes burning into Paul.

 

The other man shifted uncomfortably, the intense and angry eye contact making him squirm.

 

“Ah... A while? But now you know I know, surely you can fill in the blanks! Hah... Right?” Paul attempted to defuse the situation as best he could, smiling awkwardly.

 

"Why the fuck would I tell you anything? You went behind my back and pushed information out of my absolute twat of a father!" Desmond yelled.

 

"Des, mate, it's okay. That's all he told me."

 

"That doesn't make it 'okay', you dickhead! Don't you understand when to keep your nose out of anything?!" Desmond continued, random accusations and thoughts spewing out in his annoyance, "You can't keep your mouth shut, you don't know when to stop at all, do you?! We wouldn't even be in here if it wasn't for that stupid trick of yours!"

 

Paul backed off a little, trying to tread carefully and keep his cool.

 

"Look, pal, I only pushed the asshole for information because I was worried for a mate. I thought he proper had it in for ya, and just wanted to kinda... Help, I guess..."

 

"Don't call me 'pal'. We aren't 'pals'. All you are is an accomplice in a failed crime and I made such a mistake in coming to you for help."

 

"Des..."

 

"Don't. Just, for once in your miserable little life, shut up."

 

"... Sorry, ma- Desmond..." Paul mumbled, thoroughly subdued by the turn of events.

 

With a sigh, he stood and left Desmond's cell to return to his own, feeling like, well, that could have gone better.

 

Desmond was left on his own, absolutely fuming. His breathing was heavy and his jaw was clenched. He was unbelievably angry with Paul, but felt as if he didn’t want to be.

 

Paul sat down at the small desk in his room, trying to think of a way to make this up to Desmond. He truly hadn't had any nasty intentions, but apparently Desmond hadn't seen it that way. It was another case where he hadn't thought things through - again.

 

No matter how bad he felt, Paul was still extremely curious. He really did want to know what had happened to turn the relationship between father and son so sour. He desperately wanted to ask, but didn’t want to risk Desmond hating him more than he already probably did.

 

Desmond, meanwhile, was wrestling with his anger. He knew it was probably wrong to take everything out on Paul - he was just trying to help after all - but he was still so utterly pissed off with the other man. What gave him the right to try and dig through his past like that? How fucking _dare_ he?! He let out a sound of frustration, kicking the chair near him in annoyance.

 

A good few hours of silence and deep thought went by before anyone had the guts to speak. Oddly enough, Desmond was the one to break the silence.

 

“Paul?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

Taken aback by the sudden offer to ask questions, Paul blinked in confusion, but decided against mentioning it.

 

"Uhm, so... What made you and the old man fall out then?" He asked tentatively, still a little worried he'd set Desmond off on one again with his questions, "That is... If you're okay with answering that..."

 

“He got in my way. He took from me everything that I had to live for, everything I’d discovered, everything I’d worked towards my entire life. He and our mother were taken away from us, but he joined the very organisation that ruined our lives. I could never forgive him for that, not that he’s ever apologized.”

 

Paul listened silently, tactful enough to realise his quips weren't welcome here. He let the information sink in with a sympathetic wince - not that Desmond could see it with a thick cell wall in the way.

 

"Well... That... That's a pretty shitty dad." He muttered, appalled, "Just... That sucks, pal..."

 

“Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

 

“I mean, I’d offer to fight him for ya, but I don’t really feel like cleaning toilets.”

 

Desmond laughed for the first time in hours. It wasn’t just a chuckle though; it was a full on, hearty laugh. Paul thought it was strange; he’d never heard anyone laugh quite like that. To him, Desmond almost sounded insane.

 

“Hah, thanks for the sentiment at least..." Desmond chuckled as the laughter died out.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, making a face at the still-lingering smell of bleach on the prison jumpsuit.

 

"Hey, if we get out of here ever, I'll punch him in the face before we leave." Paul joked a little, hoping that Desmond's mood was truly taking a turn for the better.

 

“Not before I punch him myself, mate.”

 

“God, and I thought the family in Star Wars was messed up. Wait, you haven’t kissed your brother have you?”

 

“Lord, no. I may be a bit of a basket case, but I’m not nearly that bad.”

 

"At least you haven't crossed that line..." Paul chuckled a little, stretching out his legs on the cell floor.

 

"Hm, 'at least', indeed." Desmond agreed, shaking his head as he laughed.

 

“When was the last time you saw Layton? I mean, before we got arrested.” Paul asked, getting a bit more serious.

 

“Oh, god, I have no idea. Probably when the Azran Sanctuary was crashing to the ground.”

 

“Shit. So before yesterday he thought you were dead?”

 

“I suppose he must have done.”

 

Paul whistled a little, impressed Desmond was so nonchalant about all this.

 

“Must’ve been pretty shitty being away from your family like that.” He commented feeling pretty bad for the other man.

 

“I hate to say this, but it’s not the worst thing I’ve had to deal with. I’ve learned that family is never something that lasts. Well, at least not for me.”

 

Paul heard a faint crack in Desmond’s voice and feared for his emotional state. Not much longer than a minute ago he was laughing his head off, and he sounded like he was going to cry.

 

“Mate, Des... You alright?” Paul asked him, wondering if he should go back round to his cell before lights out.

 

He sighed a little, worried for him, and stood up to head around.

 

“Des?” He asked, peering round the corner of the cell door.

 

Desmond was crouched on the floor by one of the walls, his face buried in his knees. He looked eerily still, almost like he wasn’t breathing.

 

“Mate... What’s up?”

 

Paul walked in quietly, crouched by Desmond and placed a hand on his shoulder. He was confused by his actions, but all emotions would be moved in place of his worry.

 

Desmond flinched at the touch, but still did not look up. He didn’t seem to respond to Paul’s voice. He wouldn’t be ignoring him, though.

 

“Desmond? Please answer me, what’s wrong?”

 

“I’m fine.” Desmond said coldly, still looking away.

 

Paul snorted and shook his head.

 

“You’re a terrible liar, mate...” He said as he slumped next to him with a sigh, “Tell me, eh?”

 

“Why am I... me?” Why am I like this? What have I made the decisions I’ve made?... What’s wrong with me?” Desmond said as he finally looked up.

 

Paul could see that there were tears streaking down his face and that his eyes were bloodshot. His mental state had clearly taken a turn for the worst.

 

Swearing to himself, Paul shook his head a little and put his arm properly around Desmond's shoulders, trying to console him.

 

"Mate... I'm sure it weren't your fault. You said it yourself; your dad fucked things up for you. You did what you had to, right?"

 

"I didn't have to do it. I could have left it alone; I could have had a normal life, a family. But I fucked that up, just like I do everything else."

 

"Des, you're still young. You have a chance to turn things around, to start again. Your dad? He hasn't, so you should be grateful for that. As soon as we get out of here, you can get back on your feet."

 

"I'm not getting out, Paul... I've got a life sentence for what I've done; I'm sure of it..." Desmond muttered, tears still streaming down his face uglily.

 

He looked away again, almost ashamed to be seen weak like this in front of Paul.

 

"Can't you get out early with good behaviour? Or someone can bail you out?"

 

"Who in their right mind would be willing to do that?"

 

"Your brother might."

 

"Hershel? Are you kidding me? He would never do that."

 

"You never know. He's a gentleman, and all that crap." Paul smiled reassuringly and patted Desmond's shoulder warmly.

 

"Look, take the amount you bothered him by and multiply it by sixty. That's not even half as much as I bothered him in my time." He responded despondently.

 

"Really? Well, I nearly killed him. And that little apprentice of his."

 

"So did I."

 

"Oh... I nearly killed a little girl! And kidnapped her!"

 

"I kidnapped several. And replaced their minds with another girl's."

 

"Oh."

 

Sighing, Desmond looked away again. Paul made a face and patted his shoulder again, trying somehow to cheer him up.

 

"Well at least Layton doesn't seem to resent you, right? Surely you must've done something right, eh?" He attempted.

 

“That’s just how he is. Really, he should know better, he’s smarter than that.”

 

“It’s not a bad thing to have a brother who loves you. I was an only child, didn’t have any of that, never will. And I’ll tell you what, it was boring as hell. But you, you have a chance to have a brother again.”

 

"That's if he even decides to visit me." Desmond shrugged, rubbing his chin a little.

 

"I'm sure he will, mate. Keep your hopes up, yeah?"

 

“Yeah.”

 

Desmond had stopped crying by this point, but the tears still stained his face and his eyes looked extremely heavy. There was a lot going through the poor man’s head right now, and as much as Paul wanted to help him, he also wanted to know what he was thinking.

 

"Mate, what's on your mind?" He asked, hoping the question wouldn't be too probing.

 

Desmond looked at Paul a little, still rubbing at his eyes a little. Paul smiled back at him, wanting to cheer him up.

 

“I’m sorry for getting you into this,” Desmond admitted, “I’m sorry for getting you arrested. I’m sorry for getting you stuck here with me.”

 

“There are worse people to be stuck with, believe you me.” Paul chuckled.

 

"Still, I'm sorry, Paul..." Desmond mumbled, sighing and looking around the dingy cell, "This place is foul."

 

"Better than my place though, right? At least there's a cleaning rota enforced here..." Paul smiled, trying to make the best of their situation.

 

"Probably not much of one though. Judging by the state of the staff toilets, I doubt they care very much about our cells." Desmond laughed slightly.

 

He actually laughed. It wasn't much, but it was something. And it made Paul feel a little less worried about the other man's emotional state.

 

"Meh, I'm used to living in a pigsty. It's you - aka Mister Fancypants - I'm worried for." Paul joked, wanting to get him back to his normal self again.

 

He patted Desmond on the shoulder, letting out a small chuckle.

 

"Fancypants, eh? That's certainly a step up from Mr Mask."

 

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that one. I suppose I haven't seen you with a mask on for so long I forgot you ever wore one. Starting to think it was better when you wore it..."

 

"Oh! You're one to talk! I doubt that nose would even fit under a mask."

 

"How do you think I'd get into my disguises if this honker of mine wasn't absolutely amazing?" Paul defended with a chuckle, folding his arms.

 

"Lots of tape."

 

"Well I doubt you had to do much work to get into disguise as a woman, looking at those skinny little legs of yours."

 

"My legs are perfectly fine, thank you very much."

 

"Fine for a lady, perhaps."

 

"Something wrong with slender legs? They're the result of a lot of hard work."

 

Paul raised his hands in surrender, glad that their casual back and forth banter was back.

 

Now Desmond was smiling. Actually, properly, smiling. It made Paul smile. They may be stuck in a dank, dark and miserable prison, with no one besides each other for company, but it could be a lot worse.

 

"Alright, Mr Stick-Legs, I get you." Paul laughed, smiling back at Desmond.

 

He marvelled with gladness at how quickly he'd been able to cheer up the other man, a grin forming despite their situation.

 

"You know what I miss about the outside," Paul said, "Toast."

 

"We've only been in here a day."

 

"A day without toast always feels like a long one."

 

Desmond chuckled and shook his head, a genuine smile on his face.

 

"I'm sure you'll find some toast some day, mate..." He assured, jokingly patting his shoulder.

 

"You look like bread, so that's close enough."

 

"If I had a pound for every time I've been compared to food..."

 

"At least I'm comparing you to a good food, right?" Paul snickered before stretching and yawning a little.

 

"Thank god for small mercies..."

 

A couple of minutes of comfortable silence passed before someone spoke again. It wasn't an angry silence like it had been before; it had a good energy about it, which relieved both men.

 

"When's dinner in this place?" Paul wondered idly, rubbing his chin.

 

"Soon, I hope; I'm starving."

 

"Scrubbing loos works up an appetite, eh?" Paul chuckled a little, grinning at Desmond.

 

“You know what, it really does.”


	7. Chapter 7

Suddenly a voice called down the corridor.

 

“Oi, Sycamore! Topen! You have a visitor.”

 

Both men blinked in surprise, then looked at each other. Paul gave a shrug, then pointed a thumb to the cell door.

 

"Shall we?" He said, standing up.

 

“What have we got to lose?” Desmond sighed as he stood up.

 

It would be a lie to say that either man wasn’t worried. Neither could think of who the visitor might be, besides perhaps Hershel.

 

Paul led the way out into the hall, then noticed the guard.

 

"This way, you two; but first."

 

The guard quickly clamped handcuffs onto both the prisoners, just a little too tight. Paul winced and wriggled uncomfortably.

 

“Is this really necessary?” He asked.

 

“Yes, it is. We don’t want your friend there causing any more trouble.” The guard replied, gesturing to Desmond.

 

Desmond just stared back angrily.

 

"What, you don't think I'll cause trouble?" Paul asked, pouting fakely.

 

"Don't tempt me to find the leg cuffs too, Topen." The guard snapped.

 

"Yeesh, you blokes've got no sense of humour."

 

"A sense of humour doesn't last long here." The guard said dryly.

 

"Well, heck."

 

"Paul be quiet." Desmond hissed, his voice quiet and clearly showing his worry.

 

Paul poked his tongue out at the guard's back childishly as they were led into the visitors' room and brought to a table.

 

"So... Where's the mystery guest?" Paul asked, tapping his hands on the grotty, dirty surface.

 

"Impatient, are we? They're through there, in case one of you two made a fuss before we got here." The guard explained snappily, signalling for another man to let the visitor in.

 

The door was opened, and in walked a young woman with long, curly brown hair and wearing a yellow jacket.

 

Both men gasped, but for very different reasons.

 

"Oh my god." Desmond breathed.

 

"Well, hello there." Paul flirted.

 

"And hello to you too, Mr Topen." The woman responded dryly, sitting across from the two with a small look of disgust on her face at the conditions.

 

"What do you want, Altava? If it's a quote you're after, you can have one, but I'm not sure it'll be publishable material." Desmond snapped, glaring at her with nearly instant anger.

 

"Aww, Desmond, why the hostility? I come here to help you and you talk to me like this? I thought you were more of a gentleman than this."

 

 "Help us?"

 

"Oh, now you want to talk to me?"

 

"Why would you want to help me?"

 

Paul looked between the two in confusion, then held his hands up to silence both of them.

 

"Okay, okay, hold up. Who _are_ you? How do you know Des' here?" He asked, a little suspicious of her now that Desmond had responded with such hostility.

 

"I'm an old friend of Desmond's." Emmy replied.

 

"You're a traitor and a liar!"

 

"I helped you in the end!"

 

"Okay, guys, let's just chill out, stop arguing, and listen to what the lady has to say." Paul tried to defuse the situation.

 

"'The lady' has a name, thanks, Topen. Emmy Altava, photographer extraordinaire. Nice to meet you." She informed him, pointedly looking away from Desmond.

 

"Enchanté." Paul said dryly, "I'd offer you a handshake, but..." He clanked the handcuffs on the table, still uncomfortable.

 

“She isn’t worth a handshake, Paul, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

 

“Desmond, if you’re going to be so difficult, maybe I should just leave you and your friend to rot in your cells.”

 

“Yeah, Desmond, shut up. The pretty lady wants to help us.” Paul grinned at Emmy.

 

"'Pretty lady', give me strength..." Desmond muttered to himself, despairing at his friend's attitude for a moment, then taking a breath and looking up at Emmy, "Okay... How... How do you propose helping us, Miss Altava...?"

 

He looked up, trying to put his past behind him.

 

“I want to get your side of the story. I mean, sure, you robbed a bank, but you don’t deserve life in prison. Since I’m such a highly respected journalist, I could do a campaign, get you some supporters, and get you out of here.”

 

“Do you really think that’s going to work?”

 

“What have you got to lose?”

 

“Good point.”

 

"So wait, you basically wanna make us into sob stories in the hope it'll get us out of the clink?" Paul affirmed, humming interestedly, "Well I like it."

 

Desmond rubbed his chin, then nodded, glad that Emmy was on their side... For some reason.

 

"I'm for it too, then. What do you need us to do?"

 

Emmy grinned and quickly whipped out a notepad and pen.

 

"We don't have long today, so I'll just get some basis for the article, then I'll be back tomorrow for proper interviews, okay? The better and more heart-jerking the story, the more readers will be moved to help, so get digging into your past, Paul." She instructed, "As for you, Desmond, I know most of it, of course, so your job's to describe every emotion you felt in *excruciating* detail."

 

"That should be fun." Desmond replied sarcastically.

 

"Alright, I'd better be going. I'll see you guys tomorrow."

 

Emmy got up from her chair and was escorted out of the prison by one of the guards. Desmond and Paul were taken back to their cells.

 

"Do ya think this is gonna work?" Paul asked the other man.

 

"It has to. We don't have any other option. As long as you can think up a tragic past, we'll be fine."

 

"I'll have you know my past was very tragic."

 

"Oh, of course, how could I forget, you didn't get to go out with the girl you liked. A tragedy if I ever heard one."

 

"Mate, you're missing the whole 'I had a life before Claire Foley' thing." Paul shook his head, twisting his wrists around now that they were out of the cuffs, then stretched out on his bed.

 

"Go on, then, blow me out of the water with this tragic story of yours."

 

"Well for one, I was an orphan. Never knew either of my parents."

 

"Really?"

 

"Really."

 

"Anything else?"

 

"I was stuck in an orphanage most of my life, never had a single friend."

 

"Sounds rough..." Desmond said sympathetically.

 

"It was. The other kids weren't exactly friendly to the boy who broke the TV remote apart to see how it worked." Paul muttered, still a little spiteful.

 

"Did you put it back together again?"

 

"No, but that's not the point. That's still no excuse for them to treat me like crap. I was once locked in a closet for 3 days."

 

"Seriously? Why did they do that?"

 

"Well, it was when they... When they found out I'd already been in the closet."

 

"What?"

 

"You heard me. I figured out I wasn't straight at a pretty early age to be honest. Let's just say it didn't go down particularly well at the orphanage."

 

"And I thought this country was getting somewhere... I'm sorry you had to go through that, mate." Desmond muttered, feeling terrible for Paul and empathising a little.

 

The other man gave a dry, sardonic laugh and sighed, still bitter about what had happened. He tried to get his mind off it, switching the subject.

 

"So, yeah... Told you I have a tragic tale." He said, his voice already back to normal, if a little forced.

 

"It's good that we don't have to make anything up, I suppose. We just have to make the public believe us and feel sorry for us."

 

"That shouldn't be hard. Just some crocodile tears here, some decent acting there, and boom! Sympathy."

 

"Decent acting shouldn't be a problem for either of us, at least." Desmond reasoned, chuckling a little, "Maybe we'll be out of here sooner than we think."

 

"I can already taste the first toast of freedom."

 

"Is toast all you think about?"

 

"Toast has always been there for me through some pretty rough times."

 

Desmond chuckled. He had to wonder how one man could have such a great love for toast.

 

"You laugh now, but just wait." Paul responded to the other man's laugh.

 

"Wait for what exactly?"

 

"I... Didn't think that part through, I'll be honest here."

 

"Okay, I'll wait for you to get your toasty revenge on me, is that it?"

 

"Yeah let's go with that."

 

Desmond laughed again.

 

Paul chuckled, stretching out on his bed and sighing a little. He felt his stomach gurgle and made a face.

 

"Are you as hungry as me, mate?" He asked, resting his head against the wall.

 

"I could eat. But we have to wait til the guards come get us."

 

"That's a damn shame. Why can't they let us just roam free?"

 

"This is a prison, Paul. You remember that right?"

 

"Yeah, but, like, they're allowed free-roam." Paul pointed out, gesturing to a group of prisoners walking past.

 

"Maybe it's because we're higher concern than them. Neither of us exactly have the best track record."

 

“Look at that guy! He looks like he coulda killed somebody. And that one! These guys look loads rougher than we do!”

 

“You can’t judge a book by its cover, Paul. Do I look like I could be a master criminal to you?”

 

"Well, no, but... You're like the exception that proves the rule, aren't you?" Paul protested, still huffy about not being able to have free rein, "Like, you look at me and first thing you think is 'evil scientist', and you'd be right. So I still say that bloke's a killer."

 

"Whatever you say. But I'd laugh if he's an absolute teddy bear."

 

"He's in prison, Des. Have some common sense, he ain't gonna be a teddy bear."

 

"He could be. If he was in for fraud, or something like that. Tell you what, I'll make you a bet."

 

"With what money, mate?"

 

"If Emmy gets us out of here I can give you money then. But I won't need to, because I know I'm going to win."

 

"That's not a guarantee there, Des. You have to bet something else."

 

"Alright, I bet... Spending more time with Emmy, since you seem to fancy her so much."

 

"Mate, you don't even like her, it isn't a great loss."

 

Desmond shrugged and rubbed his chin.

 

"I don't know, then. It's not exactly like giving you my share of the food is any good."

 

"Okay, you have to spend more time with your dad if I win."

 

"That's not going to happen, Paul."

 

"Why not? If you win, I'll ask that Emmy bird out."

 

"Hah, fine then. If that bloke turns out to be a teddy bear, you ask Emmy out. If not, I go have a chat with Bronev." Des said, shaking his head confidently.

 

"You're on, mate."

 

They shook hands to make the bet official and decided to find out who won when they were next taken to the cafeteria. Both men were confident that they would win, but Desmond was secretly worried.


	8. Chapter 8

Luckily for the men, they didn't have long to wait until they could find out. Just then, a guard came along and unlocked their cells.

 

"I'm sure you're hungry. Move along, then."

 

Paul grinned a little and stood quickly, both excited to win the bet and to eat something.

 

“Alright, a meal and a hot date. This is gonna be a good day.”

 

“Just because you’re going to ask her out doesn’t mean she’s going to say yes.”

 

“Why wouldn’t she say yes? Have you seen me? I’m smoking.” Paul said as he gestured to himself.

 

"Absolutely." Desmond said with heavy sarcasm, fanning himself fakely, "I'm practically swooning. I don't know how people can control themselves at the sight of you."

 

He allowed himself a chuckle at a private joke, seeming as if he knew something Paul didn't.

 

The cafeteria was practically empty when they arrived; save from a few people sat around one of the tables.

 

The man they had placed the bet around had yet to arrive.

 

“We better wait around for a bit then.” Paul said.

 

Desmond hummed in agreement, and then looked to the serving hatch, chuckling a little.

 

"That nose of yours isn't very refined for smelling, is it?" He asked Paul, pointing to where he's looking, "Seems like it's cheese on toast for dinner."

 

“Hot diggity damn! Toast! My one true love. We are reunited at last.”

 

“Don’t let Emmy hear you saying that.” Desmond laughed to himself again.

 

“Why do you keep laughing? Don’t think I can reel in a catch like Emmy?”

 

“Oh, no, no. I didn’t say anything of the sort.”

 

"Well you implied it. C'mon, mate, toast awaits."

 

Paul stood and led Desmond to the serving hatch, glad that his favourite meal was on the menu to end his first full day in prison. Still, Desmond chuckled to himself, smirking when they sat back down.

 

A couple of minutes went by before Desmond spotted the large man. He nodded to Paul who turned around.

 

“Killer, I tell you know. Ya still have a chance to back out of the bet.”  


“No way. I’ll win this. That man’s no killer.”

 

"So who's gonna ask him?"

 

"Uhm..."

 

Both men looked at each other for a moment. Killer or not, that man looked like he could beat the everloving crap out of anyone who annoyed him, and neither of the two were eager for that.

 

"... Flip some toast. Butter side up, you go, butter side down, I go." Paul suggested.

 

“Are you really willing to sacrifice toast for this?”

 

“Good point. No. Well, you said he was a teddy bear, so you ask him. And remember, he’s probably more scared of you than you are of him.”

 

“Oh, har, har.” Desmond said sarcastically as he stood up from where he was seating and went over to face a possible murderer.

 

Paul smirked and watched with a satisfied air as Desmond crossed the room to the man.

 

"U-uhm. Hello..." Desmond mumbled, having not thought through how to ask this question at all.

 

The man looked around, glancing up at him whilst he ate his meal. He didn't look overly glad to be disturbed.

 

"What d'you want?"

 

"I was just wondering... Well, my friend... Was wondering... What're you in for?"

 

 "What's it to you? It's none of your business, piss off."

 

"Was it murder? Or robbery? Something else?"

 

"Can you not hear? I said piss off."

 

The man got to his feet and towered over Desmond.

 

Desmond raised his hands in surrender, backing off. He didn't want to get into two fights in a single day.

 

"Sorry, mate, I'm off." He said quickly, heading back to the table.

 

Paul waited in anticipation to hear who won the bet.

 

“Well? What’s the verdict?”

 

“Didn’t find out. He wouldn’t tell me.”

 

"And now he's glaring at you. Nice one, mate. You don't seem to be making a lot of friends, do you?" Paul sniggered, clapping him sarcastically.

 

"I didn't come here with that intention."

 

“Still, you could be better at talking to these people.”

 

“’These people’ aren’t exactly the type of people I’m used to socialising with.”

 

“Still.”

 

“Well if you’re so good at talking to condemned criminals, why don’t you go talk to him?”

 

"Fine then, I will."

 

Paul smirked, taking a bite of his toast, and then stood up with a swagger in his walk.

 

"I'll find out, don't you worry."

 

But the large man saw him coming, and readied himself for an argument, and even a fight.

 

“Hey, lads. What’s hanging?” Paul asked the man and the people sat with him.

 

“I already told your friend to get lost, I don’t want to have to repeat myself.”

 

"Mate, that bloke's far from a friend. He's the bloody reason I'm in here." Paul said calmly, waving a hand in Desmond's direction, "Why'd you think I'd be mates with him, eh? All he is now is a bodyguard, really."

 

The man looked at Paul, a little confused by him.

 

“A bodyguard?”

 

“Trust me, he’s tougher than he looks. You know how looks can be deceiving; never judge a book by its cover, that’s what I always say. Like you, you’re a big tough guy, but for all I know, you could feed ducks and read to children in your spare time. I bet you don’t though, you’re probably in here for something hardcore.”

 

The man scoffed, taking a large bite of his toast as he listened to Paul.

 

"I don't know if you can call conning some elderly customers out of a few hundred 'hardcore'." He said, scratching his bald head.

 

“Really? Is that all you did?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Oh, well, thank you for your time.”

 

Paul quickly walked back to his table, trying not to make it obvious that he’d just lost a bet.

 

“Well?” Desmond asked.

 

"He conned some customers. Not a murderer." Paul responded, sitting down huffily.

 

"Oh, well then, I suppose you'll be asking Emmy out tomorrow, then. Try softening her up with your story first. Maybe a couple of crocodile tears..." Desmond smirked, looking victorious.

 

“That won’t be necessary, she was so into me.”

 

“Of course she was, Paul.”

 

“You’re just jealous.”

 

“Hah! Of what?”

 

"My _irresistible_ self, of course."

 

Paul smirked and continued to eat his dinner, confident in his abilities.

 

"I couldn't be jealous of you if I tried, mate."

 

Desmond shook his head and ate his own toast.

 

“What ya tryna say?”

 

“What? Nothing.”

 

“You saying I’m unattractive?”

 

“What? No!”

 

“So you do find me attractive?” Paul winked at Desmond.

 

"You're a prat, Paul." Desmond sighed, shaking his head and chuckling.

 

Paul wriggled his eyebrows in Desmond's direction, and then returned to his toast, a smug smile on his face.

 

“That wasn’t a no.”

 

Desmond’s head fell onto the table in despair. He wasn’t sure how much more of Paul being a little shit he could take before he ended up punching him.

 

"You still didn't deny it..." Paul's voice was sing-songy, and he chuckled to himself.

 

Desmond groaned, exercising great self-restraint to not look up at Paul with a death glare.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Paul.”

 

“I’ll take that as a ‘maybe’ then.” Paul grinned.

 

“Ugh.”

 

Paul laughed as Desmond hit his head on the table repeatedly. Eventually he looked up and had the most unimpressed face anyone could ever imagine.

 

"You don't look happy, mate." Paul commented, still laughing.

 

"Mouth. Shut. Now." Desmond muttered, fixing him with a steely look.

 

“That’s not what you said last night...” Paul mumbled as he took a sip of his drink.

 

“Paul!”

 

“Oh, sorry, darling, am I embarrassing you?”

 

"Paul Topen, will you shut the _fuck_  up for once?!" Desmond folded his arms, glaring at Paul.

 

"You really don't want anyone to know, do you?" Paul smirked, trying not to laugh at the look on Desmond's face.

 

“Know what? What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“You know.”

 

“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”

 

Paul winked at Desmond, still smirking.

 

"Don't worry, babe, I won't tell anyone." He said.

 

"About _what_?!"

 

“Your secret is safe with me...”

 

“What secret?! What are you on about, Paul?!”

 

"Ah, 'what secret?' indeed. Nice acting, Des. They'll never catch on like this." Paul smiled.

 

"What am I 'acting' about?"

 

Desmond's head returned to hitting against the table with despair.

 

“Paul, I’m serious. Can you please just tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

 

“But that could risk everyone knowing your secret!”

 

“Look around, Paul! There is no one sat within hearing distance of us.”

 

Paul smirked, putting his feet up on the table as he finished his toast. He chuckled a little, staying quiet.

 

"Paul, I mean it!"

 

“Okay, okay, don’t get your knickers in a twist, pal.”

 

“Oh, for god’s sake... Are you going to tell me or what?”

 

“I will, but if I’m honest, it’s pretty obvious.”

 

“What is?”

 

“We both know you’re not straight, Des. You just seem to be keeping it a secret for some reason.”

 

“What?” Desmond’s face turned bright red, he was clearly embarrassed.

 

"I'll repeat myself: You're about as gay as a unicorn farting out rainbows. Why're you hiding it, mate?" Paul said, shrugging.

 

Desmond looked away, rubbing his forehead. He sighed and closed his eyes.

 

"Can we... Can we not talk about this now, Paul?"

 

“No, I think we should talk about it. I told you my secret, it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

 

“Yours wasn’t a secret, everyone knew.”

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“That’s not the point, Paul.”

 

"It's exactly my point, Desmond. I told you the whole thing; no one else knows that. So... Why not return the favour, eh?"

 

Paul smiled, patting Desmond's shoulder a little.

 

"Look, Paul... I just don't want to talk about it, okay?"

 

“Why not? We’re friends aren’t we?”

 

“Well, yes, but...”

 

“But what?”

 

“I just don’t feel comfortable talking about it. I’ve never told anyone.”

 

“No time like the present to start, hey?”

 

Just as Desmond went to speak, a bell went off, signalling the end of the dinner period, and the start of the evening free time. He sighed a little and stood up, not meeting Paul's eyes.

 

"If I'm going to talk about this, we can do it someplace a lot more quiet than this."

 

“Let’s go back to the cells then. There probably won’t be many people around there now.”

 

Paul tried not to show it, but he was quite excited that Desmond was going to open up to him. After a life of not having any friends, no less anyone that would trust him with this sort of thing, he was glad to finally have someone that would.

 

Desmond gave a short nod, then headed out of the canteen with Paul following close behind. They reached their joined cells quickly, and both sat down on the bed in Desmond's.

 

"Whenever you're ready, mate." Paul said, smiling friendlily.

 

“I... I don’t know what to say, if I’m honest. There isn’t really much to say.”

 

“Just try, I’m sure you can do it.”

  
  
Paul smiled an encouraging smile, one he hoped would let Desmond know that it was okay to talk to him about all this.

 

"Uhm, well..." Desmond stumbled over his words, running a hand through his hair, "I, uh... I took a while to work it out, in honesty. I was in college by the time I finally had a full understanding about who I was, but... I think others caught on before me, because I was bullied for it from secondary school." He shrugged, unsure what to say on the matter.

 

Paul nodded, staying quiet so he wouldn't put his friend off.

 

“At first, I thought I might be gay, but then I met a girl, and I fell in love, and then I married her and had a child. People assumed that I was straight because of this, and I thought I might be too. I thought I might be normal again. But I was wrong.”

 

"You, uh, you have a kid?" Paul tilted his head and shifted in place a little.

 

"... Had. She and my wife... They were killed. But that's off-topic..." Desmond quickly moved on, sighing, "I tried for a long time to fully get who I was, and it was... It was fucking difficult, I'm not going to lie. I'd been persecuted for being gay, then for being bi, then for 'faking it all'. It was impossible to accept myself after all of that, no matter what label I gave myself."

 

“Aw, mate, I’m sorry you had to deal with all that.” Paul said as he put his arm around Desmond, pulling him into a hug.

 

“I’m over it. Well, I’m not over it, but I’m... I’m coping with it all. That’s why the mask was so comforting; it let me someone new, someone that no one knew.”

 

Paul nodded understandingly.

 

"I get it, yeah. You could make yourself how you wanted that way, right?"

 

"That's the gist of it. But now I've got nothing. No mask, no disguises, no false names. I have to face myself for once."

 

“You don’t have to face it alone. I’m here for you.”

 

“Thanks, Paul.” Desmond smiled weakly.

 

“Personally, I think I prefer the guy under the mask than the guy wearing it.”

 

"You reckon?"

 

Paul grinned and nodded, patting his friend's shoulder.

 

"'Course I do, mate."

 

 "... Thanks."

 

“What about you?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“If you were to choose, which one would you prefer?”

 

“You know, I’ve never really thought about it.”

 

"Go on, then, make a choice." Paul chuckled, stretching his arms into the air.

 

Desmond hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

 

"I think I prefer the guy under the mask too, y'know... Descole has his uses, but... I think I'm done with him now."

 

“Well that’s good to hear. And I’m sure the world will be glad to hear it as well. Make sure you tell Emmy this when she visits tomorrow.”

 

“Oh yeah, speaking of Emmy...”

 

Paul glanced over, raising an eyebrow.

 

"What is it? She your secret sister or something?" He joked, "Or is it that you've got your eye on her, eh?"

 

“No, it’s not that.”

 

“What then?”

 

“She’s gay, Paul.”

 

“I’m sorry? And you were gonna let me make a fool of myself by asking her out?”

 

“You still have to, a bet’s a bet.”

 

"You bugger."

 

"You set the terms, mate." Desmond smirked and chuckled, "I just didn't object."

 

"Thank you, pal. Really, thanks." Paul responded sarcastically.

 

“You’re very welcome, my friend.”

 

Paul most certainly wasn’t looking forward to embarrassing himself further.

 

“And you insisted that she was into you.” Desmond continued to laugh.

 

"Well I thought she was." Paul huffed, folding his arms.

 

"You need to learn to read people better." Desmond laughed, "It's going to be your undoing."

 

“Nothing wrong with having a little confidence, mate.”

 

“I suppose, but reading people is still quite an essential skill.”

 

“I read you quite well, didn’t I?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Paul chuckled and leant back against the wall, yawning a little. The pair fell silent, but it was a comfortable, content silence. Desmond felt fairly good about the conversation they'd had, glad to have someone to share his thoughts with.

 

Both men realised that it was getting rather late, so Paul decided that he should go back to his own cell before the guards came round announcing lights out.

 

“Goodnight, Des.” He said as he left.

 

“Night, Paul.” Desmond replied.

 

Paul gave his friend a grin, then took the few steps back to his cell, slumping on his uncomfortable bed. He yawned again, and tried his best to get comfortable and not let the cold get to him.


	9. Chapter 9

By the time morning came, both man had gotten a reasonably decent sleep, despite how uncomfortable their beds were and how cold it was. They did have blankets, but they were incredibly thin.

 

"Morning, sunshines, wakey-wakey!" A guard roused them loudly, clattering his baton again the rails of their cells to serve as an alarm.

 

Paul opened his eyes blearily, yawning and glaring out at the guard. He didn't like being woken up, especially as rudely as that.

 

Desmond was practically scared awake. He sat up quickly, his heart racing. He certainly wasn’t used to be waking up like that. Once he realised what was going on, he allowed himself to yawn and rub his eyes.

 

Paul groaned tiredly, and then stood up, pacing the small amount of floor in his cell in an attempt to wake himself up better. He switched on the tap of the small sink in his cell and splashed his face with water as he remembered his and Desmond's plans for the day, and then his bet with the other man, too.

 

Visitors weren’t allowed until mid morning, and, by Paul’s guess, it was only about 8am, which meant that they had a fair amount of time to kill before Emmy would arrive.

 

The cell doors were unlocked a few minutes after their rude awakening, and Paul was first out, starving hungry yet again.

 

"Mornin', Des. You alright, mate?" He asked, glancing into the cell next to his.

 

"Yeah, I'm fine." Desmond yawned again.

 

He got to his feet and joined Paul outside the cell door, and then they walked to the cafeteria. Paul walked a bit faster than Desmond, as he was much hungrier.

 

Upon reaching the canteen, Paul grinned.

 

"Toast again." He commented happily.

 

"Oh joy." Desmond responded, not looking forward to the dry meal again.

 

"What've you got against toast?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Good. You're already half way there, anyway, bread head."

 

"That's... A terrible nickname. Please never use it again." Desmond said, shaking his head as they went up to pick up some breakfast, "Oh yay, watery tea, too..."

 

He glanced at the drink with disdain and shook his head.

 

"The food must be the worst part of being here..."

 

“Aw, come on, it’s not that bad. Some of the people are a damn sight worse.”

 

“I suppose you’re just used to eating terrible food.”

 

“Oh, I beg your pardon, your majesty. I’d guess that you’re used to eating caviar and pate for every meal?”

 

“Oh, please, I didn’t have nearly that much money.”

 

"Well you're obviously richer than me by miles. What's your secret, hm? Selling drugs on the side? Bump off a few rich barons?" Paul snarked, starting on his meagre breakfast.

 

Desmond rolled his eyes, wondering if he should even dignify Paul's questions with an answer.

 

“I used my engineering skills to earn myself some money.”

 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually. I should have tried that.”

 

“You still would have bought bread and pot noodles, even if you had more money.”

 

“What can I say? I like the simple things in life.”

 

"I don't understand how you can survive off of just that."

 

"You didn't go to university, did you?"

 

Desmond rolled his eyes and started eating his toast, more hungry now he's woken up properly. Paul tried the tea and hummed.

 

"Not bad."

 

“It’s terrible.”

 

“Meh, it’s better than I make it.”

 

“Why does that not surprise me?” Desmond smirked.

 

Paul rolled his eyes.

 

"When we get out of here, I'm teaching you how to make good tea, at the very least." Desmond continued, shaking his head as he tried to finish his own tea without tasting it.

 

"Wow. You really get passionate about your tea, huh?"

 

"Just like you and your toast, mate."

 

“Touché.”

 

A couple of hours went by while Desmond and Paul waiting for a guard to come and tell them that they had a visitor. Desmond was getting quite worried that Emmy wasn’t coming, as they weren’t told anything at the time she came yesterday.

 

Eventually, a guard came to fetch them.

 

“You two, you have a visitor.” The guard said.

 

Desmond stifled a laugh when he remembered the result of the bet, but Paul noticed and didn’t look at all impressed.

 

Paul looked less impressed still when the two got their handcuffs clapped on roughly before they were led to the visitor's room.

 

"I hate you, mate."

 

"Hate you too."

 

Emmy looked up from the table she was sat at when they entered, and grinned.

 

"Morning!"

 

“Good morning!” Desmond beamed.

 

“Morning.” Paul said, considerably less excited to see her.

 

“How are you both?” Emmy asked.

  
  
“We’re managing.” Desmond replied.

 

"Well you shouldn't need to 'manage' much longer if this campaign goes how we want it to." Emmy hummed as she got out her notepad and a pen, "Okay, who wants to have their chance in the spotlight first?"

 

 The two prisoners exchanged glances, then Desmond kicked Paul under the table.

 

"I... Uh... I'll go first?" Paul volunteered, kicking Desmond back.

 

“But first...” Desmond prompted him.

 

“But first... Emmy... Would you be interested in... going on a date... with me?”

 

“I’m sorry?”

  
  
“I’m not repeating myself.”

 

"On a date with you?"

 

Emmy tilted her head at Paul, whilst Desmond gave a confirming nod behind him, assuring Emmy that was what she'd heard.

 

"I'm flattered... But let's just say: You're a bit too male for me." Emmy declined, smiling warmly.

 

"Oh dear, Paul. Now what will you do with that love poem you wrote her?" Desmond asked loudly, suppressing a snigger.

 

“Shut the fuck up, Desmond.” Paul said dryly.

 

“Is your heart broken? Do you need a hug, Paul?”

 

Paul stared daggers at Desmond in an attempt to get him to shut his mouth.

 

"I don't know how he'll recover from this, Emmy."

 

Emmy raised an eyebrow. The way Desmond was acting gave her cause for suspicion.

 

"What's going on here, you two?" She asked, folding her arms.

 

“I lost a bet.” Paul sighed, “So Desmond made me ask you out, but he failed to mention that you’re as gay as a rainbow.”

 

Emmy laughed.

 

“Oh, Desmond, that’s so mean.” Emmy chuckled.

 

“Well, if I’d lost he was going to make me talk to my father, so fair’s fair in my opinion.”

 

At this, Emmy gave a start and paled dramatically.

 

"Y-you mean... Unc- Uh... Bronev's here?"

 

She looked around nervously, then down into her lap.

 

 "Well yeah, 'course he is." Paul said obliviously.

 

Emmy looked incredibly frightened, but Paul wasn’t at all aware why.

 

“Emmy? Are you okay?” Desmond asked her.

 

"N-no... What if he sees me? What if he tries to get me back? Oh god... I betrayed him, and now he's going to hate me..." Emmy responded, voice shaking.

 

"'Betrayed'? Anyone wanna fill ol' Paul in?"

 

“Emmy worked with Targent and she was given the job of spying on Layton. But in the end she went against Targent’s orders and helped us. Bronev was arrested shortly after all of this.”

 

“Oh. Heck.”

 

"He'll kill me if he sees me here..." Emmy muttered, running a hand through her hair and glancing fearfully around.

 

"He's an old man; he's useless without a gun." Desmond reassured, "And don't tell me you don't keep up with your kickboxing."

 

Emmy laughed a little, smiling weakly.

 

"You have a point, I guess..."

 

“Why would he see you anyway? Visitors don’t go into the main prison, and you’re not visiting him, so he won’t be allowed to see you.” Paul said.

 

“That’s true.”

 

Desmond and Paul both smiled reassuringly, then Emmy nodded.

 

"Alright then, no more moping for me. On with the interview, right?"

 

“Right.”

  
  
A couple of hours later, both men had gotten through with telling Emmy their tragic back stories as Emmy was busy writing all of this down, adding her own creative licence to make sure the people who read this would feel extremely sympathetic towards the two men.

 

"Hm, that looks pretty perfect to me." Emmy declared when she had dotted the last full stop, "I'll visit you again once I've written it up and the article's been printed, okay?"

 

She started to pack away her notepad, humming softly.

 

"Listen, Emmy, thank you for this. Sincerely." Desmond said, smiling warmly her.

 

“It’s no problem, Desmond. We have to stick together; after all, we’ve been through an awful lot.”

 

“Can I ask something?”

  
  
“Hm?”

 

“Have you seen Hershel at all since that day you left?”

 

“Oh, no, that’d be far too awkward.”

 

“Maybe you should? And tell him what you’ve got planned?”

 

"You really think so...?" Emmy tilted her head and sighed, "It'd be so difficult... Not to mention trying to apologise to Luke, too."

 

"You've got nothing to worry about on that front. He left England." Paul chimed in, glad to be of some aid.

 

“Oh. Well that might make things a little bit easier.” Emmy chuckled nervously.

 

“And,” Desmond continued, “If you do go to see him, could you tell him that I’m sorry for everything. I don’t know when I might get the chance, so I just want to make sure he knows.

 

"Maybe I'll be able to convince him to visit you when I go, but I'll pass on the message anyhow." Emmy said, smiling a little.

 

"Thank you again." Desmond nodded.

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

Emmy left, leaving Paul and Desmond with just each other for company again, but they were feeling a little better about their fate; Emmy had reassured them and they were sure that the plan was going to work.


	10. Chapter 10

"Do you think we'll get fans?" Paul asked when they were let back into the main prison.

 

"What?"

 

"Fans. Like, people asking us to sign their shirts and stuff."

 

"Paul. We're criminals, not pop stars."

 

“Yeah, well everyone likes a bit of a bad boy, don’t they? Plus, once they hear how terrible our pasts are, they’re bound to feel sorry for us and wanna give us a hug and what have you.”

 

"If you say so." Desmond shook his head, chuckling a little.

 

"C'mon, don't deny you wouldn't want people just adoring you."

 

"For having a crappy life and robbing a bank?"

 

"Yeah."

 

“I don’t know. I guess it’d be nice, but it’d just feel weird, I think.”

 

“Well, _I_ think it’d be pretty damn amazing. Just think about it; all the fame, the fortune, the ladies.”

 

"The invasion of privacy, the people asking for loans they'll never repay, the crazy fans sneaking into your flat." Desmond deadpanned, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Oh, you always take the fun out of everything. Look for the positives for once, Des. Not everything in life is so terrible.”

 

"Yeah, but you have to balance them out, don't you? See if the positives outweigh the negatives." Desmond reasoned.

 

"You're a Libra, aren't you?"

 

“Well, yes, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

  
“It has a lot to do with everything.”

  
  
“You don’t really believe in this stuff do you?”

  
  
“Why wouldn’t I?”

  
  
“No reason, I just thought you were smarter than that.”

 

"What's believing in star signs got to do with intelligence?" Paul asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

"I'm... Not getting into an argument about this..." Desmond responded, shaking his head.

 

“Why not? Maybe I wanna discuss this.”

  
  
“Well I really don’t want to.”

 

“How about we just agree to disagree?”

 

“Fine.”

 

Paul folded his arms as they walked, then noticed a room that they hadn't yet been in.

 

"What's this?" He asked, looking in to see a large gym full of bulky men, "Oh... Don't suppose you lift weights do you?"

 

“Not for a while.” Desmond replied, “Why, do you?”

  
  
“I’ve been known to.”

  
  
“Can’t have been that well known; I’ve never heard of this.”

 

"Yeah, well, I'm a man of mystery. Fancy going in and checking out the gym?" Paul jerked his thumb in the direction of the door he'd just looked through.

 

"I don't see why not. It'll pass the time. Plus, if these fantasy fans of yours really do exist, we might as well be up to standard."

 

 Paul laughed a little at this, and then led the way in.

 

As they walked through the door, several of the large men turned to stare at them. This was most likely because Desmond and Paul were a damn sight smaller and less muscle bound than them.

 

“Hey, fellas!” Paul called to them, trying to make himself seem confident.

 

A couple of the men grunted greetings, but mostly they ignored the two, returning to their weightlifting and other exercises.

 

"Friendly bunch..." Desmond commented dryly, glancing around.

 

"Can't be mates with everyone." Paul responsed, shrugging.

 

“That’s not going to stop you from trying though, is it?”

 

“Of course not. May as well be friendly. Not gonna get any further by being an asshole.”

 

Desmond chuckled and eyed a set of weights.

 

"You know... They respect you more around here if you have muscles..." He said thoughtfully, "How much do you reckon I can lift?"

 

“I wanna say not very much, but I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover.”

 

“So you think I can lift a lot?”

  
  
“That’s not what I said, but come on, amaze me then.”

 

Desmond smirked, glad to find something that was at least somewhat reminiscent of the outside world. He headed to the weights and hummed thoughtfully before selecting one of the heavier weights.

 

“Oh, seriously, Des? You’ll never lift that one.”

 

Much to Paul’s surprise, he did lift it, and with ease.

 

“Sorry, Paul, what was that?”

 

“Nevermind.” Paul said, thoroughly impressed.

 

Desmond smirked and put down the weight, hardly breaking a sweat in the process.

 

"Go on, then, your turn." He said, gesturing to the weights and folding his arms.

 

Paul blinked with confusion, then looked at the weights apprehensively.

 

“What? Right now?”

 

“Yes, unless you can’t do it.”

 

“I can do it. How dare you imply that I can’t.”

 

“Prove it then.”

 

“I will.”

  
  
“Go on.”

 

Paul walked towards the weights, trying to look confident as he put his hands on the same one Desmond just lifted.

 

"Ready for this?"

 

"And waiting."

 

"Alright, then. Here we go."

 

“Here we go.”

  
  
“Here. We. Go.”

 

Paul pulled the weight upwards with all his might, but no matter how hard he tried, it wouldn’t budge.

 

Desmond raised an eyebrow.

 

"I thought you said you were 'known for' weight lifting." He commented, watching Paul struggle.

 

Paul didn't respond, but let go of the weight, beads of sweat running down his face.

 

“I was. But that may have been a good few years ago. Several years, maybe...”

 

“Ah, that would explain it.”

 

Paul sighed and turned to a much lighter weight, starting to lift that one instead.

 

"Ah well, I'll build up my strength again sooner or later. It's not like we've got much else to do."

 

“You’ll certainly try.” Desmond teased, smirking.

 

“I will certainly succeed, thank you very much, Des. We can’t all be as macho as you right off the bat.”

 

"You think I'm 'macho'?" Desmond sniggered, picking up one of the heavier weights and starting to lift it again, "I hardly think that's the word for it."

 

“I’d say it’s right. You can lift like a ton, you beat up the toughest looking guy I’ve ever seen, and you’re like fearless, man. You’re pretty macho in my opinion.”

 

Desmond grinned, his ego swelling at Paul's words. "I suppose I am pretty macho, then... Huh."

 

“Damn right you are.” Paul said, clapping Desmond on the back.

 

Desmond laughed at this, smiling as well.

 

"I bet you could even lift that one." Paul challenged, pointing to the heaviest weight of the set.

 

"Hm... Let's see, shall we...?"

 

Desmond put down the weight he was working with and sized up the one Paul was pointing too, a confident smirk on his face.

 

He gripped the bar tight and breathed in before trying to lift it. He pulled, his arms trembling.

 

“Come on, Des! You can do it!”

 

Desmond lifted the weight, a bit wobbly, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

 

Paul grinned and encouraged his friend, watching carefully as Desmond raised the weight higher.

 

"Now that's the 'macho' I'm talking about, mate!"

 

Desmond's arms shook a little as he held the weight, starting to go red in the face.

 

“Okay, Des, you’ve proved your point, you can put it down now.”

 

Desmond practically dropped the weight, breathing heavily afterwards, trying to get his breath back.

 

“Hey, mate, you alright?”

  
  
“I’ve never felt better.” Desmond grinned.

 

"I didn't actually expect you to be able to do that one..." Paul whistled, impressed.

 

"It's been a while... But I guess I'm stronger than I remembered."

 

Desmond wiped sweat from his forehead, looking greatly triumphant.

 

“You must be hiding some killer abs under there. You’re stronger than you look, mate.”

 

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, remember Paul?”

  
  
“True, true.”

 

Just then, as Desmond was about to make a witty comment, he noticed someone sitting in a far off corner of the gym, and he began to seethe in an instant. Bronev was sat watching the two with a cold, calculating look on his face.

 

“Des? What’s up?” Paul asked, noticing how angry Desmond suddenly looked.

 

Desmond didn’t reply. His eyes were locked onto the man in the corner, who was staring right back. It was almost a dare, like Desmond was challenging Bronev to do or say something.

 

Paul followed Desmond's gaze and gasped understandingly, nodding.

 

"Alright, mate, time to go. Showers are that way, I'm exhausted, let's _go_." He said hurriedly, trying to steer him away from a conflict.

 

Desmond remained unmoving, as if he was frozen by the sight of his father. They stared daggers at each other, neither of them feeling daring enough to start a conversation, though.

 

“Desmond, let’s go.” Paul said, a little more seriously this time.

 

“Yes. Let’s.”

 

Paul put a hand on Desmond's arm and firmly turned him away, pointing to the door.

 

"Go on, let's just get clean and chill out somewhere else."

 

Desmond looked away from Bronev, eyes still narrowed.

 

After they had showered they went back to the cafeteria. It was nearly lunch time, anyway, so they just decided to wait there.

 

Desmond still looked a little shaken by what had just happened; he barely spoke and seemed to be staring into space an awful lot.

 

"Mate, are you alright...?"

 

Paul looked concerned, shaking his friend's shoulder to try and get some kind of reaction from him.

 

"Do you wanna... Talk about it?"

 

“No, I don’t. There’s nothing to talk about.”

 

“Des, you need to get your feelings out. You can’t just bottle them up, you’ll end up feeling so much worse.”

 

“I said there’s nothing to talk about.”

 

"You realise I can and will just badger you until you talk, right?"

 

"You would make a _wonderful_ detective."

 

Paul folded his arms, staring Desmond down seriously.

 

“I think you need to talk to him.”

 

“What?!”

 

“You can’t just keep staring at each other. He’s your father, Desmond. You need to see if he has anything to say for himself.”

 

"He has nothing to say that will make up for what he's done to me."

 

Desmond's voice was steely, and harsh, and it sent a chill down Paul’s spine.

 

"I'm not asking you to hug and make up, mate. Just... Not look like you're about to kill each other."

 

“What am I even supposed to say to him? ‘Hey, Pop, no hard feelings about the times you tried to kill me’? I don’t know about you, but I don’t think that would go down particularly well.”

 

"Why don't you just go and see what he says? Like... Ask him why he's still antagonising you after all these years..."

 

Desmond sighed and shook his head, staring at the table and drawing patterns in the crumbs and dust.

 

“I suppose I should, but...”

  
  
“But what? What do you have to lose?” Paul smiled warmly, hoping to offer his friend some comfort.

 

“But... nothing. I don’t have anything to lose. I would never call him my father in the first place, so if it goes wrong, I’m not losing anyone dear to me.”

 

"So what's stopping you, eh?"

 

"... Nothing." Desmond muttered, looking around.

 

With a smile, Paul nodded gladly.

 

"There we go, mate. You don't have to do it right away, but... Sooner the better, right?"

 

“You won’t make me do it alone though, will you?”

 

“Of course not, mate. I’ve got your back.”

 

“Then in that case, the sooner the better.” Desmond smiled.

 

"After lunch though, eh? I'm starved." Paul grinned back, pointing as the serving hatch opened up.

 

Desmond nodded in response, chuckling a little.

 

"Priorities, right?"

 

“Can’t confront a shitty dad on an empty stomach.”

 

“Valid point.” Desmond laughed.

 

Desmond tried to plan what he was going to say to Bronev in his head. It was hard for him to think of anything, especially how to even start the conversation.

 

Paul smiled at seeing Desmond's mood improving, then glance at the food on offer.

 

"Looks like soup today..." He commented, rubbing his chin, "I'll grab it, mate."

 

“Thanks.” Desmond said as he watched his friend get up and head towards the counter.

 

He was left on his own for a few minutes, so he thought and he hummed to himself. He felt oddly content, despite what he had just agreed to do.


	11. Chapter 11

To his dismay, though, whilst he was watching Paul at the counter, someone sat down opposite him. He turned back and the content mood disappeared in place of a sour taste in his mouth.

 

"Bronev."

 

"Hershel."

 

"That is no longer my name."

 

"What should I call you then? Desmond? Or Descole?"

 

"Desmond is fine, thank you very much."

 

"Desmond, then."

 

"... What do you want, Bronev?"

 

Desmond glared at him, utter hate in his eyes. Bronev looked back impassively, as if he didn't care at all.

 

"What do you _want_?" Desmond snapped impatiently.

 

"I think an apology is in order."

 

"Go on then."

 

"Not from me, you ungrateful brat."

 

"What? You want me to apologize?"

 

"Yes, you got in my way. You ruined my work."

 

"You tried to kill me, you bastard!"

 

"Because you didn't listen to me. All this could have been avoided if only you'd behaved."

 

"This is not my fault!"

 

Desmond glared furiously at Bronev, hands shaking by his side.

 

"Don't raise your voice at me. Did no one ever teach you any manners?"

 

"You certainly didn't. You were too invested in your research, that's why our lives were ruined."

 

"You sound like you're implying that I planned on being taken by Targent."

 

"You rose to be the leader of that foul organisation; you don't get to defend yourself on this."

 

"Why do you _think_ I became the leader, you dunce?"

 

"Well it seems like it was to destroy my life, but I suppose you thought it was to find the Azran, right?"

 

"To find the Azran. And why did I want them? The race known for their superior technology, their advanced systems of health, their tales of eternal life?"

 

“And how did that all work out for you?”

 

“At least I tried! What did you do to try and save your family?”

 

Desmond’s eyes widened and he inhaled sharply. This was the last straw, and Bronev had just gone and broken it.

 

"Get away from me, Bronev. If I see you again, I will not hesitate to kill you."

 

"You've tried that before. I'm still alive."

 

“Maybe I’ll try harder.”

 

“What? And buy yourself even more jail time?”

 

“I’m starting to think it’d be worth it.”

 

“Oh, come on, Desmond, don’t be like that. We don’t have to be enemies.”

 

“It’s a bit late to be saying that.”

 

"I'll tell you what. I'll strike you a deal."

 

"I want no part of any of your 'deals'. The last one ended with the death of my family. I can only assume this one would end in mine."

 

"You're my son. Why would I kill you?"

 

“Why wouldn’t you?”

  
  
“Just give me the benefit of the doubt here.”

 

Desmond thought for a moment, considering what he had to lose and why he shouldn’t take part in a deal with his long lost father. He thought of plenty of reasons not to, but decided to ignore them all.

 

“Fine. What’s your deal?”

 

"There we go." Bronev chuckled deeply, folding his arms, "Now, my deal. I have a contact on the outside. They're willing to supply me with what I need to break out of this hellhole, but the plan takes more than one to work. What do you say?"

 

“You’re kidding? We can’t break out; this place is far too secure.”

 

“I’m not kidding.”

 

“I feel like there’s a catch.”

 

"No catches. Just a simple escape. You help me, I help you, then we can split ways as soon as we're out. No one else involved, so there's no one to rat us out."

 

“I don’t know. What about Paul? I can’t just leave him here.”

 

“He’s been in prison before, hasn’t he? He’ll be fine.”

 

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

 

"What's the big deal about him, anyway? Isn't he just a man that landed you in prison because of a foolish trick? Surely you should be glad to be rid of him."

 

“He’s my friend.”

 

“You can make more friends.”

 

“Not likely. He’s the only one I have. And I’m the only one he has.”

 

“Big deal. What’s more important? Your freedom, or some loser who landed you in hot water?”

 

"... He's fairly good for a loser."

 

Desmond sat back in his chair, folding his arms.

 

"So. Let Paul join the plan, or I'm out."

 

“No deal. This plan doesn’t allow for another person.”

 

“Then I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. You’ll just have to live out your sentence, Bronev.”

 

"As will you. It was in the paper this morning, if you'd read it. 'Desmond Sycamore - Convicted Menace - sentenced to life without parole." Bronev smirked.

 

“What?”

 

Panic washed over Desmond suddenly. Why hadn’t he been told this by anyone?

 

“Time’s running out, Desmond. Make your choice.”

 

Bronev stood and went back to his usual table, leaving Desmond staring into space, his thoughts racing in his mind.

 

Paul finally returned to the table, having stood a way off whilst the two spoke. He grinned and nodded approvingly.

 

"That looked like it went better than expected, mate. How you feeling?"

 

Desmond didn’t reply, he only looked down at the table. Paul could see that his bottom lip was quivering, and he was sniffing a lot, obviously fighting back tears.

 

“Des? What happened?”

 

He finally broke. The tears streamed down his face as he sobbed violently.

 

"Des...? Dammit! What did that arse do now?"

 

 Paul put down their food with annoyance and crouched by Desmond, face full of concern. He carefully put a hand on the other man's shoulder and attempted to comfort him.

 

Desmond rubbed his eyes and took a breath. He spoke, but the words came out very shaky.

 

“I’m not getting out of here, Paul. Not ever. He told me that I’d been given a life sentence without parole.”

 

"What? That's bullshit! Emmy said she could get us out of here, didn't she? Surely she'd know your sentence!" Paul fumed, outraged for his friend's situation.

 

“She probably can’t. Nothing’s ever going to work. The whole world hates me; no one would ever feel sorry for me.”

 

"Des, mate, you don't really think that, do you? Why would Emmy be here if she didn't feel sorry for you? I'm sure people'll feel sorry for you..."

 

Paul sighed, sitting next to Desmond properly and putting his hands on his shoulders.

 

“They won’t. I’m nothing but a monster.”

 

Desmond’s face was stained with tears and his eyes were red and puffy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried quite this hard. It destroyed Paul to see him like this.

 

"'A monster'? Desmond, look at me for a minute. Is that really how you see yourself?" Paul questioned, still keeping Desmond from looking away by holding his shoulders.

 

"Y-yes... It's what I am, so how can I see myself any differently?"

 

“Desmond, I want you to listen to me and listen well. You are not a monster. You are a man. You have been through so much shit in your life, and you’re still here. Sure, you’ve committed a few crimes, but I doubt anyone else who was in your position would have done anything different. You have fought so hard to find answers for all of your questions. You’ve done everything you could. You’re not a bad guy.”

 

Desmond sighed, looked up, still puffy-eyed, and shook his head.

 

"I hurt people with no intent other than to cause pain... How is that *not* a bad thing?"

 

The canteen was silent now, save for Desmond's occasional sniffs and sobs. Everyone had left, gone about their business like nothing was wrong at all.

 

"Desmond, you're not hearing me properly. Just because you did some bad things, you are not, you never have been, and you never will be a bad person. Okay?"

 

“Paul, I appreciate this, but I – ”

 

Desmond was cut off. Paul’s hands had moved from his shoulders to either side of his face and his lips were greeted with Paul’s own. Desmond’s eyes widened at what had suddenly happened, but he didn’t fight it.

 

Paul moved closer to Desmond, letting his eyes shut for a moment as he acted purely on impulse. Desmond was unable to react, frozen in place by the totally unexpected action. Taking this as rejection, Paul moved away quickly, hands shaking.

 

"Shit... I, uhm... Sorry, mate. I just thought..."

 

“No, no, it’s... It’s fine, I... I didn’t realise you felt this way.”

 

“Come on, Des, don’t make it weird.”

 

Paul’s cheeks were bright red and he avoided Desmond’s gaze completely.

 

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Desmond observed Paul's actions, realising that he really did feel that way about him, and that this wasn't some desperate distraction. He replayed the moment in his head, raising his eyebrows when he realised that Paul wasn't actually a bad kisser.

 

"Hm." He mumbled, glancing at Paul again as he realised his own thoughts.

 

“What? Oh god, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I really shouldn’t have done that, I wasn’t thinking. Oh my god, I’m sorry, Des.”

 

“Paul, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize.”

 

"I really think I need too. I mean, I just- I actually just... Really, Des, I'm so s-"

 

Desmond breathed out slowly as Paul talked, then, on deciding he'd apologised more than enough, leant in quickly and made their lips meet again mid-sentence. Paul's eyes widened at this, and he couldn't help but let out a sound of surprise.

 

After a moment, Desmond pulled back.

 

“All is forgiven.” He smiled.

 

Paul blushed furiously. He seemed to be frozen in place, barely breathing and not blinking.

 

“Paul? You alive there?” Desmond chuckled.

 

All of a sudden Paul burst back into life, a beaming smile adorning his face. He flung his arms around Desmond and hugged him tightly.

 

Turning a little red, Desmond laughed a little and hugged Paul back, rubbing his back carefully.

 

"Des... You, uhm... You mean it?" Paul mumbled, somehow still a little uncertain.

 

"Absolutely, I mean it." He returned, his smile growing.

 

Paul went very shy, looking down at his feet, trying, unsuccessfully, to hide his obvious smile.

 

“I... I mean it too.” He said bashfully.

 

"I'm glad to hear that..."

 

Desmond released Paul from the hug and rubbed his arm a little, trying to reassure him of his feelings, even if he hadn't fully comprehended them himself yet.

 

“Well this day has been all kinds of crazy.” Paul laughed awkwardly.

 

“I’ll say. Whooping your ass  in the gym, the first conversation with my father in years, and then this.”

 

Desmond thought to himself again, looking away briefly.

 

“I think I know which one was my favourite.” He said, looking back at Paul.

 

"Wow, you really do pride yourself on weightlifting, then." Paul joked, finding his sense of humour again for a moment to keep himself calm.

 

"Take something seriously for once?" Desmond chastised, but he found himself chuckling too.

 

“I dunno, Des. I’m not sure; you’ll have to clarify for me. Which one was your favourite?”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Come on, Paul, you’re smarter than that.”

 

"You'll have to at least give me a hint." Paul smirked, folding his arms.

 

Desmond rolled his eyes at Paul's stubbornness, shaking his head.

 

"Why would I do that, hm?" He asked, a smirk on his face.

 

“Because I’m asking you nicely.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Is that a genuine offer?”

 

“Paul!”

 

Desmond went red in the face again, which made Paul laugh.

 

After a few moments of embarrassment turned laughter, Paul grinned at Desmond.

 

"Well? I'm waiting for an answer here, Des."

 

"Paul, I mean it!"

 

"Oh, do you now?"

 

Desmond buried his red face in his hands, sighing and shaking his head.

 

"You know I didn't mean it like that..." He protested weakly.

 

"Are you sure? I mean, who wouldn't mean it like that. Just look at me." Paul gestured to himself.

 

Desmond just groaned, face still hidden in his hands.

 

"Aw, there's no need to be embarrassed, mate. I know you weren't being serious."

 

Sighing, Desmond looked up and glanced at Paul, still amazed by this sudden turn of events. He smiled warmly at him, feeling his mood improving by the second. Paul grinned back, stunned that Desmond returned all of this.

 

"Well, that's one way to stop someone crying." Paul chuckled.

 

"I'll have to remember that if you ever start crying."

 

"Hm, maybe I'll just learn to fake cry then... I'm way too tough to just burst into tears, of course."

 

"... Right."

 

Desmond shook his head and laughed a little, standing up.

 

"We should get going before someone asks us what we're doing in here..." He suggested, wary of the possible consequences of something like that being seen there.

 

"Yeah, you're right. Let's go." Paul agreed as he stood.

 

They walked for a little while before Desmond stopped in his tracks.

 

"Aren't there security cameras in the cafeteria? What if the guards saw?" He panicked.

 

"They can't do anything, surely. I mean there's nothing against the rules about it..." Paul assured, glancing suspiciously up at a camera they were passing.

 

"It may not be against the rules, but these guards seem dead set on making my life a misery..." Desmond replied bitterly.

 

“Des, it’ll be okay.”

 

“No, it won’t. They’re going to find out, and then they’re going to punish me for it. They hate me.”

 

"If they punish you, I'll get Emmy on our side. She can get outside help, do an exposé on life in a prison ruled by unfair guards, or something... But that's an 'if'. Des, until then, it's going to be fine."

 

Paul stopped outside his cell, eyes fixing on Desmond as he attempted to reassure him.

 

"I promise it'll be okay, Des. If anything happens, those guards won't know what hit them."

 

"Then you'd just get in trouble."

 

"That's something I'm willing to risk."

 

"... Thanks..." Desmond sighed a little, running a hand through his hair and managing a smile.

 

"Only a thanks? Isn't this the part where you swoon and fall into my arms, stunned by my bravery?" Paul joked, leaning against the wall.

 

"Romance films lied to you, Paul..."

 

"Well I want my money back then."

 

"I'm not swooning any time soon, Paul."

 

"We'll see about that."

 

"What are you going to do?"

 

"... That's a surprise."

 

Desmond watched Paul carefully, folding his arms.

 

"Now I'm suspicious..."

 

"There's no need to be." Paul smirked.

 

"What 'romantic' act are you planning?"

 

"You'll just have to wait and see."

 

"You're just making this up as you go along, aren't you?"

 

"Not at all." Paul denied with a shrug and a knowing smile.

 

He was.

 

"I believe you..." Desmond said drily.

 

He didn't.

 

"Good." Paul grinned.

 

Desmond just laughed. Paul rolled his eyes as he walked into his cell.

 

Desmond went into his own cell, thoughts going through his mind too quickly for his liking. He was reeling from the events of the past few hours, and still replaying them in his mind.

 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he was more surprised about; the first talk with his father in years, or Paul kissing him. He definitely knew which one he preferred.

 

But he knew he’d have to talk to Bronev again. He needed evidence that he’d been given a life sentence. Surely the guards would have told him this?

 

Meanwhile, Paul was deliberating. When he'd gone to get their food earlier, he'd had a message passed onto him. 15 years. It was far from a life sentence for him. What happened when he got out? Should he tell Desmond this?

 

Sighing deeply, he sat on his bed and rubbed his face, tired and worried. What would Desmond say if he told him? Would he be angry? Sad? Happy for him?

 

He decided he should tell Desmond, but just needed to think of when would be the right time to do it.

 

Neither man spoke for a while before a guard came and called out to both of them.

 

“You two have a visitor. Get your arses in gear.”


	12. Chapter 12

Both men were confused. Emmy had already visited today, but who else could it be?

 

"Who is it...?" Desmond wondered to himself as they left their cells and got handcuffed.

 

"No clue." Paul shrugged, trying to keep some semblance of normality as they were led through the prison.

 

“We’ll just have to find out when we get there, I suppose.”

 

“Unless it’s Emmy and she’s got some news for us.”

 

“Unlikely. What could have happened in the past few hours?”

 

"The apocalypse could have been announced."

 

"That's also unlikely."

 

"Just trying to keep all our options open."

 

“I don’t think the apocalypse is an option.”

 

“You never know, Des. Anything could happen at any time. That’s why you’ve gotta live in the moment.”

 

"You're ridiculous, Paul." Desmond chuckled as they were led into the visiting area.

 

He looked around with interest to find their visitor.

 

“He’ll be in in a minute.” One of the guards informed them.

 

“Okay, so it can’t be Emmy then.”

 

Paul hummed and looked intently towards the door, intrigued. "I honestly have no clue who this is."

 

“Neither do I. If I’m honest, I’m a little worried about who it could be.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. It probably won’t be someone who hates us.”

 

“That’s always reassuring.”

 

"Well I did say 'probably'. There's the off chance it could be, like, that stuffy police officer who seems to have it in for me. If it's someone who hates us, we'll have someone to antagonise, right?"

 

"You're right. I don't know how you did it, but you made me comfortable about seeing someone who hates us. Congratulations."

 

“I’m just a very naturally calming person, Desmond. You should surely know that by now?”

 

“Okay, Paul, sure you are.” Desmond teased.

 

Their conversation was cut short but the door opening and both men fixed their stares on it. In walked in a man with a friendly face and a top hat on his head.

 

Desmond choked a little on air, staring as he walked in and sat down. Paul simply stared, a look of total bemusement on his face.

 

"Layton?" Both men said simultaneously, gawping.

 

“Hello, Desmond. Hello, Paul. How are you both?”

 

“Well, besides being in prison, not bad.” Paul retorted.

 

“Paul, be nice. We’re fine, Hershel.”

 

"Well that's good to hear." Hershel said agreeably, smiling pleasantly at the two.

 

"And how's the outside world? Any apocalypse happening?" Paul asked, only half joking by this point.

 

"Not one that I'm aware of, Paul."

 

“That’s Don Paolo to you.”

 

“No it’s not.” Desmond told him.

 

“... Fine. Paul, then.”

 

“Why are you here?” Desmond asked Hershel, getting to the point.

 

"That's a point. What _are_ you doing here?” Paul agreed, still wary of the man responsible for putting them in jail.

 

“I just came to visit you both.”

 

“No, I’m not buying that for a second. Why are you really here, Layton?” Desmond said dryly.

 

"Hey, I thought you said we were being nice here." Paul pointed out, folding his arms.

 

"Nice, but not fools, Paul. That's an important discrepancy to make." Desmond muttered, looking to Hershel with curiosity.

 

Hershel sighed.

 

“I’m afraid I come bearing bad news.” He admitted, “Emmy’s article wasn’t successful. Hardly anyone bothered to read it, and most of those that did didn’t feel any sympathy towards either of you. I’m sorry.”

 

“Why didn’t Emmy tell us herself?”

 

“She was too ashamed. She didn’t want you to be angry at her.”

 

"What? How could we be angry at her? She tried her best..." Paul muttered, rubbing his chin.

 

Desmond sighed, sitting back in his chair a little and running a hand through his hair.

 

"So... I guess this means we're living out our sentences, then..." Desmond said quietly.

 

“I’m sorry, I truly am. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

 

“How much money you got?” Paul asked bluntly.

 

“Not that much, I’m afraid. Not enough to bail both of you out.”

 

"Then bail Paul out." Desmond blurted quickly, his voice lowering, "Just... If you really want to help, bail him out."

 

Paul narrowed his eyes and stared at Desmond.

 

"Mate, that's noble and all, but-"

 

"Just... Don't argue."

 

“I can’t just leave you here on your own.”

 

“I can take care of myself.”

 

“Desmond.”

 

“I can.”  


“Do you realise how much they would all gang up on you if you were by yourself? Not to be mean, but you’re not the most liked person in this prison. They’d eat you alive.”

 

"Paul, listen to me. I can cope. Just take the chance, maybe come visit me now and then. Your bail is lower anyway."

 

Desmond glared at Paul, face stony and eyes cold. Paul stared right back, an almost desperate look in his eyes.

 

"Desmond. I'm not gonna leave you here to be ripped to shreds."

 

“Paul, will you please just listen to me. Just go. Live your life.”

 

“I am not leaving you!”

 

Paul had practically yelled this. It was the first time Desmond had seen him properly angry. And it scared him.

 

"Give me one good reason for you to stay in here, Paul." Desmond said coldly, voice devoid of emotion.

 

"What the hell would I do on the outside, Des?! You heard Layton, no one has sympathy for us; I would be totally alone, more cut off from society than usual!"

 

“Layton, will you please tell Paul that it would be best for him to be bailed out.”

 

“Well, I....”

  
  
“Don’t you dare say anything, Layton, this isn’t about you.”

 

“Paul, for god’s sake, why won’t you just leave?”

 

“Because I love you!”

 

Desmond froze, the look of borderline anger on his face melting away in place of one filled with unidentifiable masses of emotions. He sighed, resting his face in his hands, unable to face Paul or Hershel.

 

The Professor was looking between the two with somewhat astonishment, feeling like he was intruding on something fairly private. In lieu of leaving, he averted his eyes and allowed them at least a sense of privacy.

 

You could have reached out and grabbed the awkwardness in the air. Paul didn’t know what to say anymore. Hershel definitely didn’t know what to say.

 

"Paul..."

 

Desmond looked up again, shaking his head.

 

"If what you just said is true, prove it to me. Trust me. Take the bail and leave. Otherwise I'll have no choice but to believe you're lying to me..." He said slowly, trying to keep his voice controlled as he set out a plan in his mind.

 

Glancing around, he'd notice a certain lack of guards in earshot, and lean towards Paul, dropping his voice so only he could hear.

 

"I have a different way to get out... Just go, and I'll be with you again. Soon."

 

“But...”

 

“It’ll be okay; I promise.” He offered Paul a weak smile in an attempt to reassure him.

 

“Okay. I’ll do it. Layton, do you have enough money to bail me out?”

 

“I think so. I’ll have to check.”

 

"I think I can cope with one more night inside. Uh... Thanks, Layton."

 

Hershel nodded and tipped his hat, a small, slightly awkward smile on his face.

 

"You're welcome, Paul. I'm certain I won't see you going back in here, will I?"

 

"Scout’s honour."

 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then.” Hershel said as he stood and got ready to leave.

 

A guard came in and escorted him out of the room and out of the prison, leaving just Paul and Desmond alone together.

 

After a long silence, Paul was the first to speak, glancing at Desmond and sighing.

 

"Sorry for, uh, blurting that out in front of Layton. I'm guessing he didn't know about you either... And, uh, it's maybe a little too early for me to be saying that, too, but it's, uhm, how I feel and I thought... I thought maybe you should know." He began to ramble, trying to explain everything properly, "I mean, I totally get if you... Sorry, I'm going on."

 

“It’s fine. I guess I would have wanted you to tell me at some point. But maybe not in front of my brother.” Desmond chuckled quietly to try and make Paul feel a little more comfortable.

 

“He was bound to find out at some point, right?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

Paul smiled a little and looked away, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. He sighed, trying to glance at Desmond.

 

"So... What do we do now?" He asked quietly, feeling uncharacteristically bashful after that slip-up.

 

“I guess we just carry on as normal until tomorrow. Well, not normal. But you know what I mean.”

 

“I’m gonna miss you.”

 

“I’ll miss you too.”

 

"Des... How do you plan on getting out?"

 

Paul stood, and Desmond followed his lead as he began to leave the visiting room.

 

"Bronev gave me an offer. Just a simple escape, 'no strings attached'. Trust me, I'll be fine." He answered quietly, hands shoved into his pockets.

 

“Do you really trust him? I mean, he’s kinda the reason that you’re in here in the first place.”

 

“I don’t really have another option. It’s either that or don’t try at all. And if it goes wrong, what do I have to lose? They can’t exactly extend my sentence.”

 

"Yeah, but they can put you under heavier guard, or in a larger, more dangerous prison if they catch you." Paul pointed out, "Then you'll never get out, and... Well, I'm sure visiting rights won't extend to co-conspirators of the plan that got you in here in the first place."

 

“It’s worth a shot though. I’m not just going to sit here and do nothing. I have to try, Paul.”

 

“There has to be something else we can do?”

 

“Not that I can think of.”

 

"What if, when I get out, I collect up all the money I can to pay your bail? I'm sure I can find it somewhere."

 

"And end up destitute and on the streets because you can't pay rent? I don't think so. Paul, I'm doing this, don't try and stop me..."

 

“I’m sure it’d be fine. If I can find the money, then I can...”  
  
“Paul, don’t.”

 

“But...”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay. Well, good luck, I guess.”

 

“Thanks.”


	13. Chapter 13

There was a silence, and it hung heavily over the two men, like a cloud, threatening to crack at any moment. Glancing around, Paul noticed that they were alone in the hall they'd found themselves in. He sighed, looking to Desmond a little sadly.

 

“What?” Desmond asked him, sensing that there was something wrong.

 

“I never got my chance to sweep you off your feet.”

 

“Seriously? Really, Paul, what’s wrong?”

 

"It's nothing, Des, mate. It's stupid, just ignore me."

 

Paul shrugged, walking a few steps ahead to cut off the conversation before it could start.

 

“You know you’re a terrible liar, right?” Desmond said as he walked to catch up with Paul.

 

“No I’m not.”

 

“There you go again, lying to me.” Desmond laughed.

 

“I’m not lying.”

 

“And again! Come on, Paul. What’s up?”

 

Paul stopped, staring stubbornly away from Desmond so he wouldn't see the tears streaming down his face.

 

"Des, you're the first mate - or whatever you are now - you're the first person that's been close to me in so many years. I have literally _never_ had friends, or even people that tolerated my existence. And now... There's a high chance I'm never going to see you again after tonight. How am I supposed to be okay with that?"

 

“We just have to make the most of whatever time we still have.”

 

Paul was sobbing now, and it was hard for him to hide it.

 

“Oh, Paul, please don’t cry.” He pleaded as he took the other man into his arms and hugged him tightly.

 

"I-I can't help it..." Paul choked out, hugging Desmond back and trying to stop the tears – to no avail, "I don't want- Want to leave you, Des, not now..."

 

“Shhh, it’ll be okay.” Desmond said, rubbing Paul’s back to try and comfort him, “I promise it won’t be forever. I promise we’ll see each other again.”

 

"But when?! How can you even make that promise? Even if your escape attempt does succeed, you'll be on the run, and the first place they look will be wherever I am. I can't shelter you for that long, Des, and- and they'll monitor all my communications..." Paul fretted, sobs shaking his entire body, "If they catch you after that, I'll never see you again all the same..."

 

“Have faith, Paul. I’ll try my best to do whatever I can. But even if I don’t get out, you can survive without me. You can get on with your life, just as you used to. And it’ll be like none of this ever happened.”

 

"Des, I don't want to get on with my life like I 'used to'! Don't you get that? I don't want to pretend like I never met you, like we never robbed a bank together, like this right now didn't happen...!" Paul protested, his breaths coming only in sharp inhales now.

 

“You don’t have a choice! You’re leaving as soon as Layton pays the bail. You’re getting out of here and you’re never coming back, do you understand me?”

 

"Desmond, I don't want to leave you. Do _you_ understand _me_?"

 

Paul stepped back a little, staring at Desmond through his tears. He wiped his face and breathed shakily, keeping his eyes fixed on him.

 

"You mean so fucking much to me, Des. I can't just give up on you this easily." He said, his voice becoming more controlled as he spoke.

 

“Who says you’re giving up? You have to do this for me. I won’t let you stay in this place just so you can stay with me. I want you to go.”

 

Paul sighed, leaning back into Desmond's hug sadly.

 

"Make sure you get out of here, Des." He said quietly, hugging him tightly.

 

"Cross my heart."

 

He smiled at Paul, and Paul smiled back.

 

“Come on you, cheer up. I don’t want your last night in here to be a miserable one.” Desmond chuckled.

 

"They've all been miserable anyway. The beds are terrible." Paul managed a joke, his smile growing.

 

"Well we'll make it less miserable, then."

 

"How do you plan on doing that, eh?"

 

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Paul.”

 

Paul just shrugged.

 

“The heart wants what it wants.”

 

“It isn’t your heart doing the talking here, though, is it?”

 

"Well technically, no, it's a complex system in the brain controlling my mouth and voice box."

 

Desmond rolled his eyes and shook his head at Paul.

 

"Alright, smartass. Now, what I _meant_ by that was that you can take my cover for tonight; make yourself a little more comfortable. And you should get to bed earlier tonight so you're functioning when the guard comes round to bring you out."

 

“But you’ll be freezing.”

 

“It’s only for one night, I’ll survive.”

 

“Are you sure about this, Des?”

 

“You act like I’m making some extreme sacrifice; it’s only a blanket, Paul.”

 

Paul sighed and smiled again.

 

"Thanks, Des... For everything, not just the blanket."

 

 "You're welcome. Feel free to repay me by having lasagne ready on the table when I escape." Desmond grinned.

 

“You think I’m some kinda chef? If there’s lasagne, it’ll be a ready meal.”

 

“That’s fine. Just as long as it isn’t a pot noodle.”  


“Now what exactly is wrong with pot noodles?”

 

“Nothing, I just want my first meal on the outside to be a decent one.”

 

"Yes, _dear_." Paul rolled his eyes and chuckled.

 

Desmond grinned, nodding.

 

"But it's pot noodles every other night."

 

"How are you not malnourished?"

 

“Good metabolism? I honestly dunno, mate. I guess I’m just one of those people who can eat whatever they want.”

 

"Lucky bastard." Desmond commented, shaking his head.

 

"Indeed I am." Paul smirked, shrugging.

 

“Speaking of food, isn’t it dinner time soon?”

 

“Yeah, I think it is.”

 

"We should get to the dining hall, then."

 

Desmond smiled and nodded in agreement, glancing down the hall. He glanced back at Paul, and then started walking, satisfied to see his mood improving.

 

Over dinner they had a few small conversations; nothing majorly important, just small talk.

 

“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get out, then?” Desmond asked Paul.

 

"Eat a pot noodle, and some good toast." Paul responded, chuckling.

 

"I don't know why I asked..." Desmond grinned, laughing a little as he ate his disappointingly bad spaghetti.

 

"Hey, Des, I'll try and visit you as much as possible, if I can, alright?"

 

“Thanks, I really appreciate that. But don’t let it get in the way of your life. I don’t want to be your priority.”

 

“Come on, it’s not like I have much of a life anyway.”

 

"Well, you have a point there." Desmond chuckled a little, grinning.

 

"And someone has to take the place of all those adoring fans I promised you." Paul added.

 

Desmond smiled sheepishly and started blushing.

 

“Awww, you look like a tomato.” Paul mocked.

 

“Shut up, no I don’t.”

 

“Yeah you do.”

 

"Paul, I do not look like a tomato."

 

"Fine then. An apple."

 

Paul grinned, nudging Desmond a little and laughing.

 

"Are you a little flustered there, Des?"

 

“No. I’m fine.” Desmond replied through gritted teeth.

 

“I’m not so sure you are.”

 

Desmond hid his head in his hands, groaning loudly, in an attempt to hide his increasingly red face.

 

"Ah, I thought so." Paul teased, trying a little to move Desmond's hands from his face, "Now what brought this on, eh?”

 

“Nothing.” Desmond mumbled as he try desperately to keep his hands on his face.

 

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.”

 

“I am not cute!”

 

"Oh yes, you are." Paul insisted, grinning and managing to move Desmond's hands away.

 

Desmond looked up, face consumed by the blush on it. Paul smirked triumphantly.

 

"Absolutely adorable, at that."

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Nope. I don’t think I will.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“And I love you too.”

 

Desmond rolled his eyes as Paul continued to gloat.

 

"Look at these red cheeks; they're absolutely endearing...!" Paul cooed, smirking.

 

"Paul. Seriously?"

 

"Absolutely. You're much more adorable than you think you are."

 

“Please just shut up. If you embarrass me any further I might just explode. Then you’d be charged with murder. And you’d have to live in prison on your own with a much longer sentence.”

 

"Okay here I've got a dilemma. I mean, being sentenced like that would be pretty crappy, but spontaneous combustion always intrigued me. Hm, which do I value more...?"

 

Paul faked indecision, rubbing his chin.

 

“Are you seriously thinking about this? I’d rather not spontaneously combust thank you very much.”

 

“It could be rather interesting from a scientific stand point.”

 

“Paul!”

 

"Hm, plus there's the knowledge to be gained as to whether someone can be embarrassed to death..." Paul continued to think, "Alright, I've made my decision."

 

With a smirk, Paul began a relentless assault of 'flattering' comments, determined to embarrass Desmond totally.

 

“I never noticed the way your eyes sparkle, Desmond.”

 

“Your hair frames your face perfectly, Desmond.”

 

“You have a lovely figure, Desmond.”

 

“Dat ass, Desmond.”

 

"Paul Topen, I swear to God."

 

"Ah, that the heavenly figure who sent you here. Right, dear angel?"

 

"Paul."

 

"Hardly as beautiful a name as yours, Desmond."

 

“ _Paul_.”

 

“Yes, my darling?”

 

“Shut up before I make you shut up.”

 

“Oh, suppose I don’t, how do you plan to do that?”

 

Glancing around momentarily, Desmond assured there was no one around, but Paul took the silence as a victory and continued his barrage of 'compliments'.

 

"Has anyone ever told you how wonderfully poofy your hair is, Desmond?" He commented, reaching out to pat it.

 

A mischievous grin on his face, Desmond caught Paul's arm as he reached out, then pulled him in close.

 

"Has anyone ever told you that you need to learn when to stop?"

 

“You know, I don’t think anyone has. So I don’t think I will, you magnificent creature, you.”

 

“Okay, this is your last chance.”

 

“Oh, my precious dew kissed sunflower, what ever will happen if I don’t stop?”

 

"... This."

 

"What's 'this', then, you ravishing phantom of delig-"

 

With a smirk, Desmond pulled Paul down to his level and into a kiss, not allowing him time even to finish his sentence.

 

This kiss was much deeper and more passionate than the one they had previously shared, as Desmond wanted to ensure that Paul would be incredibly flustered.

 

Paul's eyes widened at the movement, and he let out a sound of surprise, blushing brightly. Quickly, he decided to take advantage of the situation, kissing back just as passionately.

 

They didn't break apart for a considerable length of time, and when they did, it was only because breathing was a necessary component of life.

 

Both men were extremely out of breath after what had just happened, and the claim could be made that they were as equally flustered as each other.

 

“Who’s the tomato now?” Desmond smirked as he tried to get his breath back.

 

"Well... Still you, if I'm going to be totally honest." Paul responded, grinning widely.

 

"Oh shut up."

 

"... Make me."

 

Desmond shook his head, laughing a little breathlessly.

 

"Don't push your luck, Topen."

 

“Oh, no, I’m curious as to what you could possibly do.”

 

“Let’s put it this way. You should count yourself lucky that there are security cameras everywhere.”

 

Paul somehow turned redder, but he smirked at the same time.

 

"I'm sure we could find somewhere..."

 

"Huh, you go find somewhere and let me know. You realise we're in one of the most heavily guarded prisons in England, right?"

 

Desmond grinned and folded his arms, noticing Paul beginning to turn even redder and thinking he'd won this game of chicken.

 

“I bet I could find somewhere. A secluded, private place...”

 

“Paul, honestly. I know I said we should make this last night better for you, but that was not what I meant.”

 

"It's not night time just yet. Early evening at latest."

 

"Paul..."

 

"Boo, you tease."

 

Desmond rolled his eyes and pressed a firm, quick kiss onto Paul's lips.

 

"Will that tide you over, do you reckon?"

 

“It might. I’m not sure.”

 

“Well it better, because that’s all you’re getting from me.”

 

“Aww.”

 

Paul stuck his bottom lip out in a pout and gave Desmond the puppy dog eyes.

 

"That's not an attractive look on you Paul. It doesn't work on me anyway, so feel free to give up any time."

 

Paul continued making the face nonetheless, getting a little closer to Desmond, who was ignoring him stubbornly.

 

“It’s not going to work, Paul.”

 

But Paul still didn’t stop.

 

“Paul, I mean it. That doesn’t do anything to me, so you should just stop.”

 

With a renewed attempt, Paul wrapped his arms around Desmond's waist, staring up at him.

 

"Paul... You aren't going to be successful."

 

“We’ll see about that.”

 

Paul’s mouth transformed into a smirk as his lips came into contact with Desmond’s neck. Desmond gasped.

 

“Paul what the hell are you doing?”

 

But Desmond didn’t stop him.

 

Still smirking, Paul glanced up at Desmond, who looked back down with wide eyes.

 

"What does is feel like, genius?" He asked dryly.

 

Desmond couldn’t bring himself to reply to this for fear of embarrassing himself further. He just stared down at Paul, obviously in shock, his mouth hanging open slightly.

 

"Huh, I never knew this was all it took to get you speechless. I'm going to use this one *all* the time." Paul commented, then smirked as he started to press kisses firmly along Desmond's neck.

 

The other man quietly watched Paul, gasping a little at the feeling, and let a small smile cross his face despite his original, less than half-hearted protest.

 

"I'm not speechless." He breathed.

 

"Want me to make you speechless?" Paul whispered in between kisses, "I believe I could."

 

"Uhm." "

 

I'm not hearing a no."

 

"You're not hearing a yes, either."

 

"Fair point. So... What is your response?" Paul spoke in a hushed, husky voice, pressing teasingly light kisses to Desmond's neck as he waited for an answer.

 

"Paul, look at me for a second."

 

Paul obeyed and sat back up straight, looking into Desmond's eyes. Desmond leant in close, putting one of his hands on Paul's abdomen.

 

"Paul..."

 

"Yeah?" Paul replied, his face going noticeably redder.

 

Desmond leant in even closer before he spoke, so close that their lips were almost touching.

 

"Stop yourself before I punch you in the dick."

 

Paul seemed to visibly deflate, his cheeks still managing to flare redder. He was frozen, still staring at Desmond as he was shot down.

 

"Fuck, you're hot." Was the only thing he could say, trying his best not to pull him into another passionate kiss there and then.

 

Desmond just winked at him, satisfied with how flustered Paul was now.

 

“I know I am, darling.” He smirked, “I think maybe you need to cool off, hey Paul?”

 

"Mm, uhm... Yeah, probably...?" Paul mumbled, thoughts scattered and mind working slowly.

 

Desmond grinned triumphantly, moving away from Paul and raising an eyebrow.

 

"I think we can say with certainty now: I am not _cute_."

 

“Well, you are. But you can also be hot as fuck. Just depends on what you’re doing. You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed. But whatever the hell that was... god damn.”

 

"Hm."

 

Desmond nodded at this evaluation, then stood up.

 

"It's lights out in a minute. We'd better get back to our cells. Our _own_ cells."

 

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?”

 

“Paul, behave. Even if I didn’t tell you that the guards would have done.”

 

"Not if they didn't notice... I'll just put some stuff under the cover. Anyway, you complained about being cold, didn't you?"

 

"Paul. No."

 

"But, Des..."

 

"Paul. I said no."

 

"... Fine."

 

"That can wait for another time."

 

"Well now you have to escape here even more."

 

Paul smiled a little, remembering what would be happening the next day, and then glanced to Desmond.

 

"I already promised, didn't I, Paul?"

 

“Yeah, you did. But I just worry, you know?”

 

“I know you do, but it’ll all be fine. We’ll both be out of this awful place and we won’t come back. Ever.”

 

"That sounds like a good plan to me..."

 

Paul smiled and nodded. Desmond smiled back reassuringly and then stood up.

 

"We should get going before they raise hell about us not being in our cells for lights out..."

 

Both men walked to their cells, an oddly content smile on either of their faces. They said their goodnights and walked into their cells, ready to go to sleep. Paul didn’t really want the next morning to come. Desmond did. Even though he’d miss him, he wanted Paul to leave this hellhole as soon as he possibly could.

 

Paul ended up staying up most of the night, reliving some of the moments of the day and smiling a little. He could hear Desmond sleeping semi-peacefully in the cell next to him, and he wondered when he'd next hear that. When he finally fell asleep, the sun was already beginning to rise.


	14. Chapter 14

Before too long, the guards were waking everyone up. Paul had barely gotten a wink of sleep, but that wasn’t the reason that he didn’t want to get out of bed. He knew he’d have to say goodbye to Desmond for a while, and he didn’t know when the first opportunity he could visit him would be. He’d have to get his life back on track before he could do that.

 

Desmond was already awake by the time the guards came around. He was pacing in his cell, waiting for it to be unlocked so he could say his goodbyes to Paul and then start with his plan instantly. As soon as he was let out, he met Paul in the hall, and all willpower to do anything left him. He sighed, seeing how tired and apprehensive the other man looked.

 

“Hey.” He greeted Paul with a weak smile, “How you feeling?”

 

“I’m exhausted. That was one of the worst night’s sleep I’ve ever had.”

 

“Are you worried?”

 

“A little, I guess.”

 

“Me too.”

 

Paul sighed, putting a hand on Desmond's shoulder and attempting a smile.

 

"Well... No going back now, right?"

 

"Right. Now, let's go get some breakfast, make the most of your last prison meal, so to speak."

 

The two ate and spoke for what felt like several hours, making the most of the last amount of time they would spend together in this environment. The conversation wasn’t anything exciting, and neither man had the strength to muster a laugh or even a proper smile. It wasn’t the most fun time, but it would do.

 

Eventually, a guard came over, as disgruntled as all the rest.

 

"Paul Topen, get up. Your bail's been paid." He ordered.

 

Paul sighed, glancing to Desmond a little sadly.

 

“I guess this is goodbye.” He said.

 

“No, not goodbye. Just, see you soon.” Desmond offered him a small smile.

 

"Farewell, then." Paul mumbled, managing a smile as he stood.

 

"Farewell."

 

The guard rolled his eyes, as if he'd seen this scene one too many times.

 

"Alright, alright, get moving, Topen."

 

The guard led Paul away, and Paul fought hard to not look back. He didn’t want this to be any harder than it already was, on himself or on Desmond.

 

Desmond watched him go, tears beginning to sting his eyes. But he didn’t have time to cry now. He needed to find Bronev and get out of this place as soon as he could.

 

Trying not to waste a moment, Desmond stood, locating Bronev in his usual spot in the corner of the cafeteria. He walked over with a stony face and sat opposite him.

 

"Paul betrayed me. He said he'd pay my bail, but now he's fucked off somewhere saying he won't. I'm in on that plan of yours."

 

“What makes you think the offer still stands? Maybe I’ve already decided to help someone else.”

 

“Come on, Bronev. I have to get out of here. Prison is far too low a class for people like us. We need to get out.”

 

"'People like us'... I guess I did say we weren't so different." Bronev muttered, "Your life could have much better if you'd agreed to that fact earlier."

 

“My life has been fine without knowing that, thank you very much.”

 

“Has it really, Desmond?”

 

“Despite everything, yes.”

 

"Well then, I can't tempt you to come to Targent now?"

 

"Targent's over, what are you talking about?"

 

“Targent never died, Desmond. When I left, it was taken over by a new leader than I entrusted it with. Our work wasn’t finished yet, I couldn’t just give it up, now could I?”

 

"But the Azran sanctuary collapsed; the Emissary... Dissolved!"

 

"You call yourself an archaeologist? When has a collapsed ruin stopped archaeology before? And did it truly 'dissolve'? It didn't look that way to me."

 

“What are you talking about? We all found the Azran legacy. Every one of us saw it. Surely there’s nothing more to find?”

 

"Those ruins were the last puzzle, the final key. Riches and knowledge beyond imagination could have been found if that ridiculous boy Theodore hadn't denied it. We have people working on reviving the Emissary golem. It will lead us there."

 

“You can’t do that. Do you not remember how dangerous it was? We all died!”

 

“It’s all worth it to get what we’re looking for.”

 

“You’re insane.”

 

“Do you want my help or not?”

 

“... Yes.”

 

"Then you'll listen to me, and do as I say." Bronev said in a steely voice, "Won't you?"

 

"I... I will." Desmond responded.

 

He nodded, forcing himself to remember why he was doing this.

 

“Good. Maybe you’re not such a bad child, after all.”

 

This made Desmond shudder slightly. He hated the fact that this man was his true father.    

 

"Be at the gym at lights out tonight. Make sure they don't realise you're not in your cell." Bronev ordered. With this, he stood and left, with a smirk on his face.

 

Desmond couldn’t believe he had agreed to do this. He thought he’d learned not to take risks like these, but in this case, he needed to. He didn’t have a choice. It was the only way he could get out and be with Paul again.

 

He sighed and stood up, hoping Paul was alright now. With a hum, he decided to get as much rest as possible before whatever was going to happen that night.

 

Not that he could sleep at all, though. His mind was racing, thinking about what would happen, how it could go right, and what could go wrong. And he missed Paul. He didn't think he would, but he did.

 

Thinking about what had happened the day before brought strange pangs of loneliness to him. Without even realising it, all his thoughts were very suddenly directed to Paul, and he was wondering how to pull this off and get back to him as soon as possible.

 

He was so determined. This break out had to work. He couldn't afford to fail at this point. And he definitely didn't want to have to deal with Bronev for any longer time than necessary.

 

Joining Targent was certainly not on his list of things to be doing, but all the same, he couldn't be bothered less about their reform, as long as they left him alone once it was evident he was betraying Bronev. He didn't think the old man would be too determined to track him down.

 

He didn't want to have to worry about that. He was just going to work with Bronev to get out of prison and then they'd part, go their separate ways and not breath a word to each other afterwards.

 

When Desmond finally surfaced from his half-sleep, half-thoughts, it was dinner time. He'd totally missed lunch by over thinking all of this, and spent over 6 hours staring at his ceiling.

 

He wasn’t sure if he was hungry enough to eat; his nerves had gotten the better of him and his appetite had more or less disappeared. He figured he had better eat, though, as he wanted to be prepared for what was going to happen.

 

Slowly, he made his way to the cafeteria and picked up a plate of beans on toast. Sitting far away from everyone, he started to get a little restless, his leg bouncing quickly under the table.

 

He spent most of his time staring at the clock, watching the seconds go by and waiting for lights out to come. Time was going far too slow for his liking. He needed to get this over and done with.

 

He took his time eating the small meal, then returned to his cell to create a small dummy out of his bed sheets to fool the guards if they looked into his cell in the night. He was beginning to feel a little sick now.

 

It was impossible to hide how nervous he was. His breathing had become laboured and he felt faint. This had to work. It had to.

 

Sitting down in his cell for a moment, Desmond realised how lightheaded and dizzy he was. He took a deep, shaking breath, feeling his stomach churning.

 

"I-I can't..." He mumbled.

 

But he _had_ to!

 

He just had to think of his reason for doing this. It was all for Paul. And it would all be worth it in the end; he’d promise himself that.


	15. Chapter 15

Taking a deep breath, Desmond stood and left the cell, watching as the cameras swivelled away from him and then made his way, undetected, to the gym.

 

Luckily for him, there were no guards surveying the area. He made it to the gym in one piece, and was greeted by Bronev, who was stood with two incredibly large men.

 

Desmond stopped in his tracks by the door. He stared at the men flanking Bronev and then at the man himself.

 

"You said this was a two person mission, Bronev. I don't appreciate the lie."

 

“Oh, as if I could do this without help. Besides, these two aren’t getting out; they just owe me a favour.”

 

“I hope you haven’t lied to me about anything else.”

 

“Desmond, I’m hurt. Do you really not trust me?”

 

"No."

 

Desmond folded his arms, staring across to Bronev.

 

"So, what's your plan for all this, dare I ask?" He continued, not breaking the eye contact for fear Bronev would see it as a sign of weakness.

 

“My friends here are going to dispose of a few of the guards for us while we steal their uniforms. Then we sneak out. Simple as.”

 

“How is that simple? They’re bound to catch us doing that.”

 

“Have a little faith, my boy. We’ll soon be out of here, and you’ll have me to thank.”

 

 _‘Don't call me your boy.’_ Desmond thought bitterly, but he held it in.

 

"Now, then, shall we begin? The first guard passes in a minute's time." Bronev smirked, folding his arms as the large men stationed themselves at the door to the gym.

 

“This had better work, Bronev, or you’ll have hell to pay.”

 

“Is that a threat?”

 

“It might be.”

 

“Just wait and see. It will work.”

 

Before long, just as Bronev had said, a guard came past the gym. He wasn’t conscious long enough to realise what was going on, as Bronev’s ‘friends’ had quickly dealt with him.

 

"His uniform will fit you best." Bronev muttered as the man was dragged in and stripped to his underclothes with little care, "Go on, get changed."

 

Desmond snatched away the uniform with a sigh, but kept his resolve strong with the thought of Paul.

 

He quickly changed out of his prison wear into the guard’s stolen uniform. Bronev was right, it did fit him, but that didn’t mean he felt any better about this whole situation.

 

When he returned to the small group, Bronev had changed, and the two unconscious guards were rested against the wall. Desmond sighed, feeling his nerves acting up again.

 

"What now?"

 

"We walk straight out; I already said so, didn't I?"

 

“That’s never going to work. We’ll be caught as soon as someone sees us.”

 

“Then keep your head down, don’t make eye contact, and keep walking.”

 

On Bronev’s signal, both men left the room, and headed towards the front entrance of the prison.

 

Desmond felt nauseous as they walked, but kept going, holding the ring of keys in his pocket like a lifeline. He took a glance at Bronev, wondering how he could be so calm about this.

 

He knew he had to stay silent otherwise they’d be caught in the blink of an eye. They just needed to keep walking, keep quiet, and get out of the door as soon as possible. Just keep walking, just keep walking.

 

They reached the main door after what felt to Desmond like a lifetime. He let out a breath, and then shakily unlocked it, still glancing around. Behind him, Bronev smirked triumphantly.

 

“I’ve done it.”

 

“You mean we’ve done it?”

 

“No, my boy. I’ve done it. I’m free.”

 

In a sudden burst of action, Bronev slammed his hand down on the alarm, causing red lights to flash and sirens to go off. He violently shoved Desmond out of the way and ran through the door.

 

Desmond was frozen. It took him a moment to register what had just happened. But he didn’t have time to do anything about it, as a handful of guards had shown up. One of them grabbed him. He struggled to get loose, but to no avail. He screamed and shouted, cursing Bronev for this.

 

"No!" Desmond shouted, hitting out at the nearest guard desperately, "Get off of me!"

 

The guards were too strong, though, and Desmond was held down, a stun gun pointed at him threateningly.

 

"Get the other one!" Another guard ordered, pointing out the door.

 

“He’s gone! There’s no sign of him!”

 

“Then go after him! Bring him back here at once! We’ll deal with this one.”

 

Desmond was on the verge of tears. He was afraid. The guards looking down at him had a vicious glint in their eyes.

 

Swear words ran through his mind at incredible speeds as he was held down. The alarm was still blaring, boring itself into Desmond's mind in a way that he knew he'd never forget.

 

He'd failed. He was never getting out of here. He'd be lucky not to be put in solitary for the rest of his life and only be served bread and water. He would never see Paul again. Never.

 

“What should we do with this one then?” One guard asked, a devious smirk playing on his lips, causing Desmond to shudder.

 

“I think he needs teaching a lesson. Take him away and treat him as you see fit. Assure that he knows he will never again see the light of day.”

 

"Wh-what?! That's fucking illegal!" Desmond managed to spit out, fighting against the hold as he was dragged up to standing.

 

"Not if no one finds out about it." The guard holding him said dryly, preparing the stun gun in his hand for any further struggles.

 

“You can’t do this! You can’t!”

 

The guard activated the stun gun and jammed it into Desmond’s side. Desmond howled in pain, tears stinging his eyes.

 

“Be quiet!”

 

Desmond held back another yell of despair and agony as the stun gun connected with his skin again, gritting his teeth and glaring up at the guard with fury in his eyes.

 

"Take him to solitary. Turn off the cameras." The head guard ordered before looking away to talk into his radio and get any updates on the successful escapee.

 

“Then what do we do with him?”

 

“Do whatever you think he deserves. Treat this scum however you want. I have more important things to worry about right now.”

 

The two guards assigned to Desmond exchanged a look of pure malice, and it was all the prisoner could do not to hit out at them again.

 

"Alright, boss." One said, tugging at Desmond's arm a little too hard, "This way, you scum."

 

They practically dragged him to the cell. Desmond no longer had the strength or the will power to walk on his own. He felt weaker than he ever had before. His side was searing with pain and his mental state wasn’t much better.

 

How could this have gone so wrong? Why did he trust Bronev? Why didn't he know he'd do this? Why didn't he run?

 

All the regrets came washing over him as he was thrown into the cell, which was somehow even barer than the normal ones, with no bars to look out from, a single light and a heavily reinforced door.

 

“What should we do to him, Walsh?” One guard asked the other.

 

“I don’t know, Jenkins. What do you think we should do to him?” The other guard replied.

 

Desmond let out a groan, half of despair, and half of pain. The guard called Jenkins whipped around at this, hitting him around the head.

 

"I thought I said to shut up!" He snarled, eyes blazing.

 

“Is this why you were told to turn the cameras off?” Desmond spat.

 

The guard responded by kicking him in the stomach. Desmond hissed in pain, trying to make as little noise as possible so as to not aggravate the guard any further.

 

"What they don't see won't hurt 'em." The guard said cockily, folding his arms.

 

"But it will hurt you." The other one added, smirking.

 

Desmond moved away from the two, holding his stomach as if to settle its churning. He couldn't believe that his had happened...

 

“On your feet. Now.” One of the men ordered.

 

“No.”

 

“Did he just say no to me?”

 

“You know, I think he did.”

 

“What are we going to do about it?”

 

“Nothing nice, that’s for sure.” The guard said devilishly.

 

He walked over to Desmond, who cowered in fear.

 

“I’m going to give you one more chance. Stand up.”

 

Desmond stayed still. The guard didn’t like this.

 

He grabbed a fistful of Desmond’s hair and yanked him upwards, forcing him to get onto his feet.

 

Desmond couldn't stay silent at this. He let out a yell of pain and tried to move away, to no avail. The guard holding his hair pulled him back, hitting his head against the wall. Desmond let out another yell, and he felt blood begin to trickle down his forehead. The other guard advanced now, taking out his baton with a sadistic smile on his face.

 

Desmond winced. He had never been so afraid. He tried to shrink back and away from the baton, but the guard holding his hair kept him in place.

 

“I don’t think he’s learned his lesson yet, do you?” The guard said as he tapped the baton against his hand.

 

“No, I don’t think he has.”

 

"We'd better be better teachers then." The first said.

 

With hardly any warning, he smashed the baton into Desmond's ribs repeatedly, harder and harder each time.

 

“Stop! Please!” Desmond begged.

 

The guard delivered one more blow to Desmond’s chest, which caused Desmond to cough and splutter relentlessly, eventually spitting a mouthful of his own blood out.

 

"Alright, alright, don't kill the man." The guard holding Desmond's hair said, throwing him down to the floor hard, "Else this entertainment'll be pretty short."

 

Desmond gasped for air, trying to wipe blood from both his mouth and from his eyes, where it had trickled down from the head injury.

 

The guards left the cell and locked the door, leaving Desmond in a messy heap on the floor. He couldn’t even breathe, let alone move, without being in intense pain.

 

Letting out a small whimper of pain, Desmond could feel tears running down his face. He tried his best not to let himself sob, knowing it would only hurt him more. Scrunching shut his eyes, he controlled his breathing as best he could, taking long, but shallow, breaths.

 

In the past, he would have felt like he deserved all this. But now he had something he wanted to fight for, to continue living for. He thought of Paul to try and comfort himself, and he wondered if Paul was thinking about him. Paul would have no idea of what was happening here.


	16. Chapter 16

Meanwhile, Paul was staring at his pot noodle, unable to get Desmond out of his head. He hoped to god that his attempt to escape would go well, and made a promise to himself that, should Bronev try anything funny, he'd kill the man.

 

He had already promised Desmond that the first thing he would do would be to get his life on the outside back together. But since he didn’t really have much of a life anyway, he decided that he would visit Desmond at his first opportunity.

 

He stayed up the rest of the night worrying, and decided to turn on his radio when morning broke, just to fill in the silence a little.

 

"... It's being reported that this convict is highly dangerous, and should not be approached under any circumstances. Should you have any evidence as to his whereabouts, or any clues leading to his recapture, call your local non-emergency number, and your information will be forwarded."

 

Paul perked up, glancing at the radio. He grinned proudly, a weight being lifted from his chest.

 

Desmond had done it. As far as Paul knew, Desmond was now free and on his way here. Paul sat up waiting, watching out the window. He sat there for hours upon hours, still watching, still waiting. Still watching, still waiting, watching, waiting, watching, waiting...

 

Eventually, the sun began to set again. Paul was confused and worried... What happened? Had he been recaptured? Sighing, he switched back on the radio, pouring himself a weak mug of tea before he took his place back by the window.

 

"That is to repeat, he is now likely armed and dangerous. Do not engage. The victim of the shooting, a one Hershel Layton, has been taken to hospital."

 

Paul’s eyes widened. Why would Desmond do such a thing? He can’t have done. Paul needed to see this for himself. He decided he should visit Hershel in the hospital and ask him what happened.

 

There was no doubt that there would be all sorts of people there; police, reporters, journalists and the like.

 

Paul was right in his assumption. Battling his way through the crowds was anything but fun, and finding Hershel's room was even worse, but easier, thanks to the crowds of photographers around it. He fought his way in and shut the door with a sigh, then looked to Hershel.

 

“Hey, Paul.” Hershel greeted him weakly.

 

“Hey, Layton. How you feeling?”

 

“I’ve been better. How are you?”

 

“Huh. Trust you to ask about someone else after being shot.”

 

Hershel chuckled softly, holding the space over his chest where he was shot.

 

"I'm assuming this isn't a 'get well soon' call, is it? I don't see grapes." He said with a dry smile.

 

"Well, you'd be right about that one, I'm afraid..."

 

“Is everything okay?”

 

“Yeah, well, not really. I don’t know...”

 

“What can I help you with, Paul?”

 

“I want to know what happened. Who was it that shot you?”

 

"It was a man called Leon Bronev. He's the ex-leader of an organisation called Targent that has since been disbanded. According to the news, he just escaped from prison and decided shooting me was his first priority."

 

Hershel sighed, adjusting himself in the hospital bed uncomfortably.

 

"He's not exactly a pleasant man. Avoid him if you can."

 

“I know who he is. I had the misfortune of meeting him in prison. Apparently he was planning this for a while, he even tried to get Desmond to help him with it.”

 

“So did Desmond escape too?”

  
“I have no idea. I haven’t heard anything from him since I left. Honestly, I’m glad to hear it wasn’t him that shot you. When I heard that someone had escaped on the radio I assumed it was Desmond.”

 

"If they've not reported it, I'd imagine he didn't escape... Not that I particularly condone his attempt... I'd suggest you go and visit him."

 

Paul nodded thoughtfully, wondering if Desmond even had tried to escape, or if working with Bronev was just too hard for him.

 

“That’s a good idea. I’ll go in the morning as soon as I can. I’ll let you rest now, though. See you soon, Layton.”

 

“Goodbye, Paul. Good luck with everything.”

 

Paul left the hospital, his thoughts still racing. He was unbelievably worried about Desmond. If he hadn’t managed to escape with Bronev, then what had happened to him?

 

The sun was beginning to set by the time he was back home, and all the time his thoughts had never left Desmond. He was desperate for the next day to come so he could see Desmond and ask him what the hell happened.

 

Desmond, however, wasn't looking forward to the next day any more than he had this one.

 

He figured that it more than likely that the guards would come back and terrorise him even more. Already he was bruised and broken; he dreaded what they could possibly do to him that would be worse.

 

He didn't sleep the entire night, the pain much too much to sleep through, and his worries adding to the sleeplessness. When the door opened at some point the next morning, and watery light filtered into the pitch black cell, Desmond looked up fearfully, backing into a corner and wiping as much blood from his face as possible. The crying from yesterday had left him dehydrated, and his voice was scratchy when he let out a sound of fear.

 

“Did you get a good sleep, buddy?” A guard mocked as he stepped into the room.

 

“No. As a matter of fact I didn’t.” Desmond replied, standing his ground.

 

“Aww, what a shame.”

 

"Don't suppose there's any chance of me getting some breakfast is there?" Desmond continued, glaring up at the guard.

 

"Sure. Eat up." The guard laughed.

 

He threw down a small bowl of what had some small resemblance to watery porridge, which clattered to the ground, spilling most of its contents.

 

"I don't want to see you miss a single drop if you're that hungry."

 

It was true, Desmond was incredibly hungry. He quickly picked up the bowl and drained the contents completely. He threw the bowl at the guard’s feet, which was a considerably bad move.

 

The guard glared down at Desmond.

 

"Bit disrespectful for someone who just fed you, isn't it? Now, since you're being an ass, I'll remind you: I said *everything*." He spat, jerking a thumb to the food that had spilled onto the fairly dirty floor of the cell.

 

Desmond cringed.

 

“I am not eating that.”

 

“You’ll do as you’re told.”

 

“No I won’t. You can’t tell me what to do. What you’re doing here is illegal and as soon as I leave this wretched place I’ll report you to your superiors.”

 

“And who do you think is going to believe you?”

 

"Whoever I show my bruises and cuts to, you dickhead."

 

"Prison fights can get very nasty. You should get into less of them."

 

The guard smirked, knowing Desmond was totally under his power. He took his baton off his belt again, tapping it against the wall as be watched his prisoner.

 

"Now eat it."

 

“No.”

  
  
“Do you remember what happened last time you disobeyed?”

 

“It’s hard to forget.”

 

“Then do as you’re told. Or that will be your last meal here.”

 

"What'll you do, kill me? It'd be hard to dispose of a dead body, even for you despicable creatures."

 

"Eat it!"

 

The guard whipped round with a snap and cracked the baton right into Desmond's side, eliciting a loud shout of pain from him.

 

"Make me!" Desmond snarled with an animalistic fury.

 

The guard took a few steps towards him, but he didn't cower in fear or back down as he had before. He held his ground, staring up at the guard like a cornered predator ready to attack at any moment.

 

"Alright then, I will."

 

With a sadistic grin, he brought the baton down across Desmond's back and sides again and again before crouching by him and grabbing his hair. He shoved him close to the ground, practically ignoring the man's resistance and snarled insults.

 

"You scum. You worthless piece of shit. You can't even follow simple orders. You're not going to survive in this place, and I'm going to make sure of that."

 

The man continued to shove Desmond's face against the floor, the hard surface scratching his already tender skin.

 

"Now what are you going to do? Or do I have to repeat myself?"

 

"I'm going to eat it." Desmond replied, defeated.

 

"Better."

 

The guard still looked blazingly furious, and Desmond knew it was far from over. He winced as the guard's foot connected with his back, then looked up fearfully.

 

"Eat. Now. Come on, before it gets cold."

 

Desmond's lip curled up in disgust. He couldn't believe he was being made to do this. And by a prison guard, no less. He dipped down and licked the watery substance off the floor, the guard watching him the whole time.

 

"See? Don't you feel better already? Lot of nutrients in that."

 

The guard smirked when he finished, aiming a kick right into Desmond's stomach. The kick connected perfectly, and Desmond felt his insides churning again.

 

He clutched his stomach, trying his hardest not to throw up the 'food' he had just eaten.

 

"Please... stop..." Be begged the guard.

 

"Why should I, you scumbag?" The guard asked, scarily calm all of a sudden, "Give me one good reason to leave you alone."

 

"What have I ever done to you? Why do I deserve this?" Desmond got to his feet shakily, staring at the guard, breathing heavily, "You have no right to do this to me."

 

"Because you killed my wife!" The guard burst out, bringing his baton down onto Desmond's shoulder with great force, "Not everyone was off that fucking ship of yours before it exploded, you know?!"

 

Eyes blazing, he kicked Desmond in the stomach again, before catching him square in the chest with his next kick.

 

Desmond screamed. The pain was unbearable.

 

"I'm sorry." He managed to choke out, "I didn't mean it. I thought everyone was going to be on the submarines. It was all planned so no one would get hurt."

 

"You didn't plan well enough then, shithead!"

 

The guard kicked him in the stomach again, and Desmond could no longer hold the feeling of nausea down. Struggling to move so he wouldn't choke, he felt himself run cold as the guard hit him in the side of his face with his baton and left without another word.

 

Desmond practically dragged himself to the side of the room and leant against the wall. He could feel the blood trickling down his face and could already tell that there were multiple bruises forming.

 

Worse still was the feeling that he would be sick any moment now, and the knowledge that someone had actually died thanks to his actions. How had he missed them in his checks? This was awful. With a shudder, and a groan of pain, he doubled over, his very small amount of food making a reappearance.


	17. Chapter 17

As soon as he had managed to compose himself, the heavy door began to open again. Desmond prepared himself for what he was sure was to come.

 

Much to his surprise, a different guard entered the room; a much less violent looking one.

 

"You have a visitor. Follow me."

 

Looking up in confusion, Desmond tried to stand, holding his stomach and gritting his teeth to try and bear the pain.

 

"Sometime today."

 

Shuddering, he followed slowly, limping and making sounds of pain with every step. Eventually, he had to lean on the wall to keep himself upright.

 

The guard never looked back at him. He probably didn't care. He managed to get to the visiting room in one piece, just about. He was glad to sit down on a proper chair.

 

We'll send him in in a minute." The guard informed him.

 

'Him'? Was Paul visiting already? Desmond sighed. What would he tell him about his injuries? The truth, he supposed. With a wince, he reached out and took a drink of water from the polystyrene cups on the table. He needed to wash his mouth out.

 

He drank all the contents of the cup but he could still taste the distinct metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The inside of cheek was bleeding heavily because of the final blow that the guard had delivered.

 

Watching the door to the room in a sleepy, pained haze, he managed a weak smile when he saw it opening. Paul looked well, and it made Desmond glad to see that, even after what he'd been through the past 24 hours.

 

Desmond, however, did not look at all well. And this was the first thing that Paul noticed.

 

"Oh my god, Des. What happened to you?"

 

"They... They didn't like me trying to escape..."

 

Desmond sighed and looked up Paul with a wince.

 

"But how're you? Everything alright on the outside?" He asked, trying to brush off Paul's worry.

 

"That's not important right now, Des. What did they do to you?"

 

"I'm fine, Paul, really. It doesn't matter."

 

"Desmond, I'm serious."

 

"You don't have to be w-"

 

"Desmond. Tell me."

 

Paul fixed Desmond with a look and folded his arms, but even whilst he looked stubborn, care could be seen behind. He sighed and sat across from him, shaking his head.

 

"They beat me up a little. That's all."

 

"A little? Look at you! You're covered in blood and bruises! This isn't acceptable, Desmond. You need to tell someone."

 

"And who's going to believe me?" Desmond retorted, quoting what the guard had previously said to him.

 

"Well I do! And... Emmy would!"

 

"Hah, and what'll Emmy do? No one has any sympathy for me anyway; they'll think I deserve this. Just... Can we just talk about something else?"

 

Desmond looked so weary. His face was red and puffy, he had a black eye and there was dried blood all down the side of his head. His hair was matted and messy. Paul could see he didn't want to have to think about all of this for any longer time than he needed to.

 

Sighing, Paul rounded the table and carefully hugged Desmond, trying not to hit any bruises.

 

"You can't stay in here any longer, Des. I can't believe they're allowed to do this crap to you... I'll get planning, see what I can do about getting you out." He muttered, furious with the prison, "How do you think a prison guard outfit would look on me?"

 

"That won't work. They already know who you are. And that's what Bronev tried, anyway. But it just worked out a lot better for him"

 

"Oh god, yeah, speaking of Bronev..."

 

"What about him?"

 

"After he got out, he shot Hershel. He wanted to get him out of the way because he knew he'd be an inconvenience. Hershel's still alive though, he's in the hospital at the moment."

 

Desmond froze and stared.

 

"You're kidding me?" He said, aghast.

 

"Not at all... Sorry, Des."

 

Paul shook his head and gently patted Desmond's hand, sighing.

 

"I'm going to _kill_ that man when I get out of here."

 

"If you can find him. The police are looking all over; there's been no sign of him."

 

"I bet I could find him. I could try..."

 

"Where do you think he'd be, then?"

 

Paul sighed, still trying not to stare to much at the bruises and blood across Desmond's face. It made him feel horrible that this had happened so soon after he'd been bailed out.

 

“I don’t know. I have no idea, Paul... I...”

 

Desmond went quiet, staring at his feet. His shoulders were moving up and down in the telltale way that indicated he was crying.

 

Feeling a twist in his chest, Paul sighed and rounded the table again, hugging Desmond gently.

 

"It's going to be alright, Des; I'm going to get you out of here, no matter what it takes. If they lay another finger on you, I'll... I'll kill 'em all."

 

“That won’t do you any favours, Paul. You’ll just end up back here. I can deal with it. They won’t kill me.”

  
“And that automatically makes it okay? They can’t do this forever; eventually they’ll beat you so hard and you won’t recover from it. You shouldn’t have to be dealing with it.”

 

"Yes, but I can, and that's what matters. Look, Paul, there's fuck all you can do to get me out of here; do you understand? I'm in solitary confinement, under 24-hour heavy guard, and they took my chance at bail off after I tried to escape. I'm _never_ leaving this place."

 

Saying out loud made Desmond shudder. He looked away from Paul and sighed, giving up entirely.

 

“You can’t say that. There’s always a chance.”

  
  
“Well there isn’t here, Paul! There is no hope! I am stuck in here and there’s nothing anyone can do about it!”

 

"Des, please don't say that... We'll find a way to get you out of here! I'll talk to Emmy, see if she has police connections, or maybe Layton can help again! There's still a chance, Des!"

 

"Paul, I mean it. Just forget about me and let me rot in here. You can't spend the entire rest of your life on a fool's errand."

 

“Don’t you understand that I can’t do that? I can’t just leave you here, I can’t forget about you. I need you.”

 

“Please just go, Paul. We’re not getting anywhere sat here arguing. If you want to do something useful, then just go and do it. You don’t need to be here anymore.”

 

"The longer I'm sat here, the less time they have to hurt you."

 

"And the _angrier_ they get. Please leave."

 

It hurt Desmond to cut Paul away like this, but he had to. That way it would be less hard for him to miss him.

 

“Fine. Goodbye, Desmond.”

 

Paul left the room, but it was obvious that he was hesitant to. The last thing he wanted to do was leave Desmond here, but he also didn’t want to make things any worse for him.

 

He would find a way to help him. He was determined.


	18. Chapter 18

"Get up."

 

Desmond looked around from his seat - none too fast - and saw a guard glaring at him.

 

"Now!"

 

Wincing a little at both the shout and his pain, he managed to stand up again, shaking violently as his weak legs attempted to hold him up. He was held by the collar of his shirt as he was half-dragged back to his cell, and every single moment of it sent new pain searing through him.

 

He was thrown in the room roughly, landing in a heap on the floor. The door slammed shut behind him.

 

Desmond was extremely relieved that all the guard did was take him back to his cell.

 

Groaning with pain, he pulled himself into a sitting position, realising he can still smell vomit and thinking they must not have cleaned. Unfortunately, the light was much too dim to verify this, so he just tried his hardest not to breathe through his nose.

 

He felt bad sending Paul away like that, but he couldn’t bear to let him see him like this. He was a broken shell of a man now, with the cuts and bruises to prove it.

 

He hoped enormously that Paul wasn't going to do anything ridiculous or dangerous, but knowing him...

 

Sighing, he closed his eyes, deciding it would be best to get as much rest as he could before something else happened to him.

 

It wasn’t even evening time yet, but he was understandably exhausted. He curled up on the bed in the cell – if it could even be called a bed – avoiding irritating his wounds as much as possible. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him.

 

Leaving the prison was hard for Paul. He couldn't stop thinking about how pained Desmond had looked. But who could he tell? Layton wasn't going to be much help whilst he was recovering from a shooting, and - realistically - it was right what he'd said about Emmy.

 

What could he do? He couldn't just leave Desmond there!

 

He would just have to figure this out on his own, but he would also have to inform Layton and Emmy of the situation at hand. They would probably be worried sick, but they might also help Paul think of a plan.

 

Sighing, he decided to make Emmy his last call for today. He hadn't seen her since she came in to write the article, so he thought he should visit her no matter the situation. As he walked towards the office of the newspaper she worked for, he tried to come up with some kind of plan that would work for all this.

 

He was nervous about telling her about what was going on, as she might feel like it was her fault for not being able to get sympathy for the men with her article. But nonetheless, Paul felt it was his responsibility to tell her everything.

 

He stepped inside the building and asked the lady sate at the reception where he could find Emmy.

 

“Oh, just down the corridor. It’s the second door on your left.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

As soon as he knocked upon the door, he was answered with a quick call of 'come in'.

 

Emmy was sat at the desk, looking pale and a little shaky. Upon seeing Paul, however, she let out a sigh of relief to see a familiar face.

 

"Paul, it's good to see you... I'm so sorry again I couldn't help you with my article..."

 

“Don’t worry about it; you did the best you could do.”

 

“How are you? How’s Desmond? And the professor? I heard about what happened to him, but I haven’t had any time to go and visit him.

 

“Layton’s fine, he’s just resting. I’m fine. I’m just glad to be out of that hellhole.”

 

“And Desmond?”  
  
“That’s another matter entirely.”

 

Emmy sat up properly, closing her laptop to pay more attention. She looked both exhausted and now worried too, and Paul couldn't help but be a little concerned for her.

 

"What happened to Desmond?"

 

"He, uh... The guards attacked him."

 

“Really? What did they do to him?”

 

“I don’t know exactly, but when I saw him he was covered in bruises and he was bleeding a lot. He could barely move he was in so much pain.”

 

Emmy covered her mouth with her hand, hiding a swear word.

 

"Why did they do that to him? It's... Disgusting!" She burst out, eyes blazing with fury.

 

"He, uh... He tried to escape with Bronev, but... Got backstabbed, to put it lightly." Paul explained, folding his arms.

 

At Bronev's name, Emmy flinched a little, and Paul remembered what he'd been told about her relation to him.

 

"How're you holding up with him getting out, by the way?"

 

“I’m fine. It’s a little stressful knowing he’s back out there, but he hasn’t tried to contact me or anything, which is a good sign, I guess. I just can’t believe what he did to Hershel. What kind of monster shoot their own son?”

 

Paul nodded in agreement, sighing.

 

"He's... He's a nasty bloke. I mean I know he was bad, but this is just horrible." He muttered, "But if he's not trying to contact you, I hate to be insensitive, but we have bigger fish to fry. How do we get Des out of there?"

 

“I have no idea. If we can’t pay his bail or get public support, then I’m not sure there is a way to do it.”

 

“There must be something we haven’t thought of...”

 

“I don’t know, Paul. But I’m really very busy at the moment, so I don’t really have the time to think about this.”

 

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it, then. Thanks anyway, Emmy.”

 

"Look, Paul... I'm really sorry. If you need anything I can help with... Just call me."

 

Emmy passed over her business card with a weak, tired smile before Paul could leave. He took it with a nod, noticing how exhausted she looked.

 

"Just a suggestion, but try and get some sleep, eh? Don't stress yourself too much about all this."

 

“Will do.”

 

Paul left the building, still fiddling with the business card, and still thinking.

 

It was getting late, and there wouldn’t be time to do anything else before morning, so he figured he should go home and get some food and sleep. He pretty much hadn’t stopped the whole day, so some rest was well deserved.

 

He headed back to his flat with a grim expression, over thinking the entire way. When he got in, he made up a pot noodle and opened up a can of beer. Then opened up another. And another. He needed a break.

 

By about 10 O’clock, his eyes were bloodshot, his mouth was dry, and his face was stained with tears. He missed Desmond terribly, and being incredibly drunk only made him miss him more.

 

His emotions were alternating between furious and inconsolably miserable at a moment's notice, and he could barely move from his chair to get to his bed. Instead, he stayed up, and he drank more, until he was out of things to drink. All he wanted was to numb the pain.

 

But the pain just wouldn’t go away no matter how numb he felt. He missed him. He missed him so much. It made him sick to his stomach to think of Desmond stuck in that place, to think of what those guards might be doing to him.

 

His own thoughts tortured him even when he blacked out in the chair, his nightmares full of terrible images of Desmond bloodied, bruised and broken. That night, Desmond died too many times for Paul to count, even if he'd wanted to.


	19. Chapter 19

Eventually, morning broke and sunlight seeped through the window. Paul’s head was pounding. He wasn’t sure if he’d slept at all, but he knew that if he had, it can’t have been for very long at all. He had one hell of a hangover.

 

Groaning, he stood up, kicking a few cans out of the way and sloping to the bathroom. He knew he had to get ready for the day, no matter how many hammers it felt like were pounding in his head. Almost instantly, his thoughts were back on Desmond.

 

He needed to see him again. Desmond had told him to stay away, but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t stay away while knowing what was happening to him. He decided he would visit him again, but try to keep the conversation as light as possible.

 

Making a quick breakfast of toast and tea, Paul tuned into the radio. There was no news on Bronev today. At least he could take a little calm from the fact he hadn't gone and attacked Emmy too. He took a few pills for his headache, then left the flat, still looking exhausted.

 

He prayed that Desmond wouldn’t be too angry at him for not staying away. But then again, how could he be expected to stay away? The man he loved was in trouble, and he’d be damned if he didn’t do anything about it.

 

Reaching the prison much faster than the previous day, Paul actually had a while to wait before visiting hours began. He paced in the lobby, thinking of what could be happening to Desmond right at this moment. It was driving him frantic to imagine it.

 

Desmond, however, felt the most content he had been for a couple of days. It had been a good while since he had seen a guard, which was a good sign. Granted, no one had brought him any food yet this morning, but he was partially glad, as it meant that that guard wouldn’t have the chance to terrorise him yet.

 

Already, some of his more minor injuries were beginning to heal, and he could stand with only a few pangs of pain with each step. The cell still smelled vile, and he could barely see anything at all, but he wasn't being mercilessly attacked, and that was what mattered to him at that moment.

 

He thought about Paul, and if Paul was thinking about him. But why would he after Desmond had been so rude? He didn’t want to send Paul away; he just thought that it would be for the best. He was beginning to doubt that.

 

God, he missed him so much. It wasn't just that he missed their conversation, and their laughter, but he felt, in those short days when they'd been 'together'... They had actually had something. How could it be that they had to throw that away now? This was all so unfair!

 

He felt tears welling in his eyes, but he fought them off. He was done with feeling weak and defeated. He needed to fight back. He needed to stand up for himself and try and think of a way of getting out of here.

 

Glancing to the door of the cell, Desmond hummed thoughtfully. The camera in the room was still off, so they wouldn't know where he is, he guessed. That gave him the upper hand. The next time a guard came in, maybe he could catch them by surprise...

 

It would be a very risky thing to do, but it was the only plan he could think of. If he could get to the front of the prison, he could tell someone of a higher authority about what was going on and how the guards were treating him and then hopefully get it sorted out. That is, if they would believe him.

 

Now it was just a question of waiting for someone to enter. Desmond sat waiting by the cell door, tense and prepared. He felt a small pang of hunger, but on thinking of what happened last time he ate, it was quickly quelled and his mind was back focusing on the plan.

 

What felt like hours went by. Either the guard that had beat him had been fired – which Desmond figured was highly unlikely – or they had forgotten about him altogether. He wasn’t sure if he’d prefer them to forget about it or to remember him and cause him pain.

 

Desmond waited for more and more time, but nobody came. It was beginning to worry him now, and the hunger was unavoidable. He sighed, but didn't give up. He had to stay awake and alert, no matter what. Pacing up and down the cell, he stared at the door, getting tetchy now.

 

Suddenly the door swung open and a guard stepped into the room. It wasn't one he recognised, which Desmond guessed meant that he wouldn't be getting a beating today just yet.

 

"You've got a visitor. Follow me." The guard said in an oddly friendly voice.

 

Desmond was confused. Who would be visiting him now? He'd probably pissed Paul off enough to never see him again, and Hershel was in hospital. As he walked, he wondered if it would be Emmy and if so, why she'd visit him.

 

The visiting room was empty when he arrived, and the guard left the room and locked the door as soon as Desmond sat down. It was time for more waiting, apparently.

 

Whilst he waited, he took the cup of water from the same place it had been sitting the day before and gulped it down, too thirsty to care about cleaning his mouth at all. He watched the door carefully, and sat up a little when it opened.

 

Paul walked in the room, smiling, as if to try and make Desmond feel a little better about him being there.

 

“Hey, Des. How are ya?”

 

“As good as I can be. What are you doing here?”

 

“I came to visit you. I know you said not to, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it and I didn’t want to stay away and...”

 

Paul was cut off as Desmond stood up and moved to hug him tightly over the table.

 

“Thank you, Paul.”

 

Surprised, it was a moment before Paul realised what was happening and hugged back. He rubbed Desmond's back reassuringly and then moved away a little to look at him.

 

"How are you feeling? Did they do anything else?" He asked with concern, still holding him, but a little more loosely.

 

“No, not yet. Nobody came in today apart from the guard that brought me here. I don’t know if they will do later, though.”

 

Paul nodded and checked Desmond over, smiling when he notices the bruises beginning to go down.

 

"You've gotta stay strong, Des, and I know you will." He encouraged, sneaking a quick kiss onto his cheek before anyone else could enter and see them.

 

They sat and talked for a couple of hours, partially about the situation at hand, partially about how Hershel was doing in the hospital, but mostly it was just casual conversation. Desmond actually laughed and smiled for the first time in days.

 

He marvelled at how Paul managed to cheer him up so quickly, and his mind didn't for one second stray to thoughts of what might happen when he left. He was happy, and he was calm, and that was what mattered at that moment.

 

He wanted this moment to last forever. He finally felt content. It no longer mattered that he was sat in the middle of a prison building in an orange jumpsuit with bruises coating his body; all that mattered was Paul.

 

The other man was so glad he could bring this joy to Desmond, even just for the moment. He smiled at him, able to make jokes and laugh despite everything. As much as he longed to have Desmond back for good, this would do well for the moment.

 

Eventually, Paul was told that he would have to go soon. He and Desmond said their goodbyes and they shared a hug.

 

“Goodbye, Desmond.”

  
  
“See you soon, Paul.” Desmond smiled weakly, in an attempt to comfort the other man, even if he wasn’t the one that had to stay in this place.

 

Paul smiled warmly, turning away reluctantly and leaving the room. Desmond smiled after him, almost not caring what happened now. He had been so cheered up by Paul's visit that he felt he could take on anything.

 

And he would have to.

 

A guard came to fetch him to take him back to his cell, but this time, it was one that he definitely recognised.

 

"Did you miss me whilst I was off shift?" The guard mocked straight-off as he shoved Desmond forcefully into the cell and closed the door behind them both.

 

Desmond landed with a grunt of pain, but forced himself to become numb to it, to just switch off until it was over.

 

"I bet you're hungry, right? Do you want to eat?"

 

"No, thank you." Desmond replied flatly.

 

"Oh, I see you've learned some manners. Good boy."

 

Desmond shuddered at this. This was all so wrong.

 

"Now, tell me all the details. Who's this mysterious visitor of yours that keeps chipping away at our time together?" The guard asked, preparing his baton as he waited for an answer.

 

"No one." Desmond denied - too quickly to be telling the truth.

 

"I don't believe you. Now tell me the truth. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Your call."

 

"Why do you want to know? Are you jealous? Am I really that much of a delight to spend time with?"

 

Big mistake.

 

"The only part of you that's a delight," The guard growled, whacking Desmond in the back of the knees with his baton, "Is causing you all the pain you deserve."

 

With this, he held Desmond down, one knee on his back, and twisted his arm up. Desmond closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, refusing to give into the pain and give the guard the satisfaction he wanted.

 

The guard raised his arm and brought the baton crashing down against Desmond's head. Desmond tried his hardest not to make a sound. He clenched his jaw and breathed heavily.

 

With a noise of anger, the guard twisted his arm further back and smashed the baton into it repeatedly, intent on breaking the bone. At this, Desmond couldn't help but let out a quiet whimper of pain, not letting himself do anything more than that.

 

But the guard wasn't at all bothered by Desmond's apparent lack of pain; he just carried on and on with it, like he knew that what he was doing was affecting the other man greatly even though he wasn't letting it show.

 

Now he moved from attempting to break Desmond's arm, and kicked him in the stomach repeatedly. Curling up a little, Desmond shuddered. The guard smirked down at him, then stopped his assault for a moment.

 

"Get up. Now."

 

Desmond did as he was told with arguing. He stood up, but stood a little straighter and a little taller than usual. He tried to project an air of confidence.

 

The guard glanced at this newfound pride and growled a little, annoyed at his defiance. He pinned Desmond to the wall by his throat and smashed the baton into his stomach, then around his face.

 

Desmond just looked back at him, blood spilling down his face, a smirk playing on his lips. He wasn’t going to let himself be taken advantage of like this anymore.

 

The less reaction Desmond gave, the more enraged the guard became. He cracked the baton over his head, causing Desmond to sink down a little, but he was held up by the hand around his throat. Still, he smiled.

 

“You’ll have to do better than that.” He snarled.

 

The guard tightened the grip on Desmond’s neck, causing him to feel a little light headed. He tried his hardest to keep his eyes on the guard and let him know that he wasn’t going down without a fight.

 

"Gladly." The guard returned.

 

Smirking back, he put away the baton, and Desmond thought he might have a moment of reprieve. But that was just a hope. The guard took out a stun gun out of his belt, and jammed it into Desmond's side with a sick grin on his face.

 

Desmond couldn’t hold it back any longer; he screamed in pain, his side feeling like it was on fire.

 

“There we go.” The guard hissed.

 

He turned the stun gun up to a higher setting, pushing it back into Desmond’s skin.

 

"N-no!" Desmond shouted out, feeling himself sliding down the wall, only to be held up again by his throat.

 

The guard had a sadistic smile on his face as he continued to shock Desmond, like he was enjoying every moment of the other man's pain.

 

“Stop! Please!” Desmond cried out almost involuntarily.

 

For once, the guard listened to him. He loosened the grip he had on Desmond’s throat and he fell to the ground. Desmond clutched the part of his neck that had been crushed by the guard’s hand and felt that the skin there was red raw.

 

"Well. It's about my break time now. I'd get some rest if I were you." The guard said coldly, stalking out of the room.

 

Desmond stayed where he was sat, gasping for air and trying to massage the pain away from his side.


	20. Chapter 20

He’d tried to stand up for himself, and it had worked for a while, but in the end it was no use. The guard would just find other ways – that would be so much worse than the previous ones – to torture him.

 

He had to get out of here somehow! Paul was right when he said that he'd end up with a permanent injury this way. But... How did he get out of the cycle he'd fallen into here? He couldn't just grin and bear it until he got bored...

 

If he could figure out where Bronev was hiding, then maybe they’d let him help the investigation. If that were possible, he would at least be out of the prison for a little while. And that would be so much better than nothing.

 

So, in that case, where would he be? He had to work this out. Perhaps... The Nest.

 

Desmond rubbed at the stubble growing on his chin thoughtfully. The location of Targent's headquarters had never been reported to the police, after all... But there was the question of if he wanted to stay in London or get away as quickly as possible...

 

There were so many possible options, there would be no way he would be let out to investigate based on a hunch. He had to think about it long and hard, and he didn’t know how much time he would have to think about it, as the next punishment that the guard delivered could very well be his last one.

 

He needed to know this. Bronev would only go to places he knew; he wouldn't risk alerting anyone by buying something or threatening someone. But he had standards too.

 

Dammit, Desmond knew Bronev better than anyone; he should be let out to help no matter what!

 

He would just have to try and convince them. He began thinking of how he would make his case, and before long his wounds weren’t bothering him nearly as much; the only thing he was focusing on now was Bronev.

 

He didn't have very long to think though, as the guard re-entered only a few minutes later, looking just as angry, but much more energised. Desmond looked up for a moment, then looked away again to continue thinking, already prepared for most things he could do.

 

The guard was clearly annoyed that Desmond was ignoring him.

 

“Don’t you know to greet people when they enter a room?”

 

“I’m busy.”

 

“Busy?” The guard scoffed, “Busy doing what? You haven’t got anything to do in this place. All you can do is rot.”

 

"It's a good time to find inner peace. I'm meditating." Desmond said dryly, staring at the floor.

 

The guard scoffed and crossed his arms, deciding how to break down his prisoner's defences this time.

 

"Surely your eyes should be shut if you're meditating." He said slowly, taking out his pepper spray with a smirk.

 

“Not necessarily. It was quite peaceful in here before you arrived. I had no need to close my eyes.”

 

“That’s awfully rude, don’t you think?”

 

“I hate to break it to you, but I’m not the rudest person in this room.”

 

"I'm not arguing with you over this. Fact is, I'm in the room now. Close your eyes."

 

"Why should I?"

 

"Close your eyes."

 

“I don’t want to close my eyes.”

 

“Do as you’re told.”

 

“And what are you going to do if I don’t?”

 

"You need to learn to stop asking me that question."

 

With a smirk, the guard uncapped the pepper spray and sprayed it directly into Desmond's eyes, forcing them closed as he cried out in pain at the unexpected attack.

 

"There we go. Much more calm. Don't open them again, will you?"

 

Desmond tried to open his eyes, but the pain was too unbearable to he was forced to shut them again. They were watering something terrible and he knew that they would be awfully bloodshot.

 

“Why do I need to have my eyes shut? What are you going to do to me?” He practically sobbed.

 

"That would spoil the surprise, wouldn't it? Come on, now, I thought you were going for calm. I won't need to help you shut your eyes again, will I?"

 

Desmond shook his head, trying not to rub at his eyes for fear it would make the burning worse.

 

"N-No...! Please don't!"

 

The guard fell quiet. Too quiet for Desmond to hear. He couldn't hear footsteps, or fabric, or anything. Opening his eyes to understand what was happening was totally out of the question; they still burned beyond belief.

 

That was why it came as a total shock when he was hit around the face with even more force than usual, and sent sprawling onto the ground. His head his the hard floor of the cell with considerable force and, as he let out a shout of agony, he felt blood starting to seep out.

 

Even if he could have opened in his eyes, he wouldn't have been able to see very well. Because of this new injury, his vision would have been extremely blurry and he wouldn't have been able to see what the guard was doing now anyway.

 

As he tried to push himself off of the floor back into a sitting position, he felt a heavy weight on the side of his head, slowly pushing him further into the ground.

 

"No! Please, stop this!" Desmond begged, no dignity left for him to care about.

 

He struggled violently against the pressure on his head, but he couldn't escape it. With a growl, he tried one last time, to no avail.

 

"Look, I- I think I know where Bronev might be!"

 

"What? Why does that matter? That doesn't change anything here. It's really not my problem."

 

"Bronev is the entire reason I did everything I did, everything in Misthallery, everything at the Crown Petone, everything in Monte D'Or; I did all of it because of him."

 

"You're missing the vital fact that it was _you_ who did it."

 

"But wouldn't you rather take your anger out on both of us, at the very least? He did this out of evil and anger. I did what I did out of desperation. He murdered my wife and daughter!"

 

"As tempting as that sounds, I think I'm more than entertained with just you."

 

"Please. The whole police force is looking for him; I can help them find him. Then you can punish someone who's truly evil and deserving."

 

"'Truly evil and deserving'? For killing your wife? Let me remind you that you did _exactly_ the same, you shit stain!"

 

The guard kicked Desmond in the face, feeling his nose break under the impact and grinning.

 

Desmond howled in pain and quickly covered his nose. He couldn't see, but he could feel that it was bleeding and it was definitely out of place.

 

"Please! Just let me help!" He cried, still desperately trying to convince the guard.

 

"Why should I?!" The guard roared back, slamming his foot into Desmond's face again.

 

He was in a blind fury now, his sole intent to destroy Desmond in every way possible.

 

"If you let me help, you can do whatever you want to me when I get back in here. I won't object, and I won't fight. I'll get what I deserve."

 

The guard glared down at Desmond.

 

"Why do you so badly want to imprison this man again? You've got a trick ready, don't you?"

 

With this, he kicked him in the chest and pinned him down with his foot.

 

"You won't get anything past me."

 

"I don't have a trick, I just want to help bring a criminal to justice. His crimes are far worse than mine, so if I have to suffer in here, then he should have to as well. I don't have anything to try and get past you. I swear."

 

"How do I know I can trust the man that killed my wife, huh?"

 

The guard eased up a little on pinning Desmond down, much to his surprise and relief. He took a gasp of air and fixed the guard with a look.

 

"Because those days are behind me. Back then the Azran was all I had to live for; now I have something more important that means I'm going to be a better person."

 

The guard hummed, debating the possible things that could happen if he agreed to this.

 

"Please. I promise I'm not planning anything. You can trust me."

 

The guard watched Desmond carefully for a moment.

 

"If you try anything, I can promise you, your death will be slow and excruciating."

 

He threatened, taking out his handcuffs and kicking Desmond one last time before cuffing his hands behind his back.

 

"Thank you." Desmond said as he got to his feet.

 

The guard didn't reply he just grabbed Desmond by the arm and dragged him to the main part of the prison to tell the higher ranking officers about what was happening.

 

Desmond was worried. In truth, he had no idea about where Bronev would be, he just had to bluff his way through all this.

 

Stumbling a little at the sudden movements, and blinking at the brightness of the halls, Desmond tried to gather his thoughts. He was still aching in every possible way, and it was hard to focus on anything but that.

 

Still, he had to think. There was no doubt that the officers would ask about every little detail of what he supposedly knew, so he would have to come up with something.

 

He didn't have too long. Already the guard was inside the office of the warden, explaining the case. Desmond was sat outside with two new guards staring at him, hands on their weapons in case he made a run for it.

 

He couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, but by the tone of their voices, they didn't sound too positive. It didn't sound like they liked the idea, so Desmond didn't have high hopes.

 

Shifting in his chair, he winced a little and looked down at his bruises despondently. At least, in the worst case scenario, the guard wouldn't get angrier at him for this, and he'd escaped a little while of that torture to recover.

 

He just hoped that the guard wasn't being completely serious when he threatened to kill him. The guard might not be able to get more angry, but the punishments he delivered could get worse.

 

The door to the warden's office clicked open and the guard stepped out, looking just as violent as before, followed by two more official looking men. Desmond looked up, ignoring the guard and looking to the warden instead.

 

The warden spoke in a very serious tone.

 

"Mr Sycamore, we've decided to let you aid out investigation. But you understand that this doesn't guarantee your freedom? As soon as we find Bronev, you'll be back in here."

 

"I understand, sir."

 

Inside, Desmond was filled with joy. He was out, if only for a short while. If he could get to someone in that time and explain what was happening, he was sure to at the very least be relocated, or get the guard fired. It was a great step forward, no matter what.

 

"I have one request." He said to the warden.

 

"What is it?"

 

"I want to see my friend when before I do anything else. He'll be worried about me and he might be able to help as well."

 

"... Granted. You'll be held in custody in Scotland Yard holding cells whilst you aid us with our investigation. Transport will be here in a few minutes." The warden agreed stiffly, nodding, "You, take him to the front. You'll be his guard for all the time he's out."

 

The warden gestured to the guard that had brought him here in the first place, and he offered Desmond a sickeningly sadistic smile. Desmond shuddered, not at all happy to have to still deal with him even though he was out of the prison itself.

 

The warden ignored this shudder, and sent the guard and him on his way.

 

"So, it seems I'm still in charge of your discipline. Better be good now, right?" The guard muttered lowly, guiding Desmond through the prison with a just too tight grip on his shoulder.

 

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Now take me to see my friend.”

 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

 

“ _Please_ take me to see my friend.”

 

“That’s better.”

 

Desmond stifled an angry remark as he was escorted - for what he hoped would be the last time - to the visiting room. He sat down, knowing they'd already be calling Paul now, and that he'd be there as soon as possible.


	21. Chapter 21

The phone rang in Paul’s flat, waking him up. He had slept a lot in the past couple of days, not having anything better to do.

 

“Uh... hello?” He greeted sloppily.

 

"Paul Topen?"

 

"Speaking."

 

"Desmond Sycamore has requested to see you as part of his terms for aiding the police in their search for Leon Bronev. I take it you know where to go."

 

"I-I'm on my way!"

 

Paul grabbed his coat and left the flat as soon as he put the phone down. He made his way to the prison as fast as humanly possible; he was excited to see Desmond again. But he also wanted to hear about this plan that Desmond supposedly had.

 

Looking up when he saw Paul enter the visiting room, Desmond grinned at him, looking triumphant. Paul beamed back, moving over to the table and hugging him warmly.

 

"Des, you did it! You've got a foot in the door now... Thank god." He congratulated happily.

 

“Don’t get too excited; I’m not free. I’ll be spending the most part of this investigation process in Scotland Yard.”

 

“But you know where Bronev is, right?”

 

“... I don’t. I mean, I have an idea of a few places he could possibly be, but I don’t know where he is exactly. That’s why I need your help."

 

“What do you want me to do?”

 

“I need you to keep looking for him. And I need you to try and report the guard to someone of a higher authority; someone like Chelmey.”

 

Paul nodded dutifully, smiling at Desmond.

 

"Who knows? Maybe if you help them enough in finding him, you can prove you've changed." He suggested, nodding reassuringly.

 

"Maybe I can. It might be enough for them to cut my sentence by some, or at least bring back the option of bail."

 

“It’s good to see you.”

 

“You only saw me yesterday.”

 

“Still. It’s still nice.”

 

Desmond smiled. He had to admit, he liked being with Paul. There was just something about him that made Desmond feel so much more comfortable, and more like he had something to fight for.

 

"I'll do my best to get out of here, Paul. For you, if no one else." Desmond said quietly, not meeting Paul's eyes.

 

"And I'll do my best to report that guard for you, and snoop as much as I can on anything to do with Bronev." Paul responded, taking Desmond's hand over the table on an impulse.

 

Desmond smiled and blushed slightly, which caused Paul to chuckle a little.

 

“See, I told you you’re cute.”

 

“No I’m not.” Desmond denied, but blushing harder as he did so.

 

"You really are, Des." Paul laughed softly, squeezing the other man's hand and smiling at him.

 

"I believe you actually described me as 'hot as fuck'..." Desmond returned, still refusing to meet Paul's eyes.

 

“Yeah, well you’re that too. People can be both.”

 

“Not at the same time, though.”

 

“Okay, you have a point there. But right now, you’re adorable as fuck.”

 

"I'm still going to dispute that..."

 

Desmond chuckled a little and looked towards their hands, grinning.

 

"Des, you realise I'm always right, yeah?" Paul smirked, raising his eyebrow.

 

“Not always. Sometimes you say things that are stupid.”

 

“What, stupid like your stupidly cute face?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

"Aww, someone can't admit that they're cute..."

 

"Paul, stop it."

 

"Stop what? Insisting that you can be head-spinningly adorable?"

 

“Paul.”

 

“Desmond.”

 

Paul flashed a cheeky grin and Desmond rolled his eyes.

 

Before they could say anything else, the door was opened and the guard walked into the room.

 

“Okay, visiting time’s over. Get moving.”

 

Before the guard had a chance to see, Desmond pulled his hands away from Paul's, quelling his blush as much as possible. He smiled softly at Paul one last time, then stood and turned away, the visit putting him in high spirits.

 

The guard grabbed him roughly by the arm again and dragged him out of the room.

 

“That’s your friend, huh? What a weird looking bloke.”

 

“I knew you were jealous. You can’t have me all to yourself, you know?” Desmond mocked.

 

"Oh, I'm fully aware. That's why our time together has to be all the more excruciating." The guard snapped, twisting Desmond's arm a little and making his shoulder ache.

 

Desmond rolled his eyes and adjusted how he was walking to ease the pain a little.

 

"Totally jealous."

 

“Be quiet.”

 

“The more you deny it, the more I know it’s true.”

 

“You realise that if you don’t shut your mouth right now I will make you regret that you were ever born?”

 

“Ah ah, I’m under the protection of Scotland Yard now.”

 

"That won't stop me. And, as they said, this doesn't mean you're free. Eventually you'll be back here, and you'll be back in that cell, and I will destroy you, piece by piece." The guard threatened.

 

“Well, sir, I’d like to see you try.”  


“You sound like you’re planning something.”

 

“Assume what you will.”

 

“What did you tell that friend of yours?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

"Tell me what you said." The guard ordered.

 

"I said... Nothing." Desmond returned, imitating his tone perfectly.

 

“Don’t play games with me, boy. What did you say to your friend?”

 

“See, there you go. You have to be more specific when you ask questions.”

 

“Tell me now or so help me I will cause you more pain than you could imagine."

 

“Let’s just say, you should maybe start looking for a new career path.”

 

The guard stopped in his tracks and glared at Desmond.

 

"You shouldn't have done that."

 

With a dark look, he dragged Desmond into a nearby room, taking out his pepper spray again.

 

"And really, you need to stop all this violent resistance and these escape attempts, or I'll be forced to use this."

 

“I’m not trying to escape. I’m just trying to bring bad men to justice. Is that such a bad thing?”

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

“Or what? You’ll spray me with that again? Don’t you have any new material? This act’s getting a bit old.”

 

"Oh, I'll give you new fucking material."

 

Growling, the guard would ram his knee upwards into Desmond's groin, and then hit him round the head. Glaring straight into his eyes, he smirked.

 

“Is that good enough ‘material’ for you? Or do I need to show you what else I have?”

 

Desmond groaned in pain, but didn’t let it bother him too much.

 

“That’s the oldest trick in the book, mate.”

 

The guard glared, checking his watch. He had five minutes before Desmond had to report to the front to be transported over to the Yard. He might as well use them wisely. He glared down maliciously at him and pinned him to the wall by his throat with more force than usual. Within moments, Desmond was seeing stars as he ran out of air.

 

“Is that all you’ve got?” Desmond choked out.

 

His usual sensibility seemed to have disappeared. He was done with being pushed around, so he had decided to stand up for himself. Not that this was going at all well for him, it just seemed to be making things a whole lot worse. Perhaps Paul’s personality had rubbed off on him more than he thought.

 

"I've got plenty more." The guard smirked as he rammed his knee upwards repeatedly, still holding Desmond up.

 

Letting out a strangled groan of pain, Desmond felt his knees buckling. He was beginning to notice small black spots floating in his vision, and he started gasping for air like his life depended on it which, in reality, it probably did at this point.

 

“If... If I go unconscious... how are you... how are you going to get me outside on time?”

 

The guard clenched his jaw, still not letting go of Desmond’s throat.

 

“It’s your call... Depends if you want to lose your job sooner...”

 

For a few seconds more, the guard tightened his hold, and Desmond desperately sought air, but then the guard dropped him. Falling to his knees, he was frozen for a moment, both with relief and the need to breathe again. He coughed a few times, feeling dizzy and lightheaded.

 

“One of these days, you are seriously going to regret that.” The guard snapped at him.

 

“We’ll see.”

 

“Stand up. It’s time to go.”

  
  
Desmond got to his feet. He was a bit wobbly, but he soon managed to balance himself out.

 

Without waiting long for Desmond, the guard pulled him out of the room and along again, looking furious. Desmond stumbled along shakily and looked around, trying to work out how far along they were.

 

It didn’t take them very long to walk to the front of the prison, as it seemed the guard was walking as fast as he possibly could, and, despite the fact that the guard was dragging him, Desmond found it hard to keep up.

 

Finally the guard released Desmond, and he went over to the warden, looking instantly more obedient and calm.

 

"The transport's ready."

 

Just then, a few more guards appeared, ready to escort Desmond to the van. He sighed, but reasoned that at least these ones didn't want to kill him.


	22. Chapter 22

It was an awkward journey to say the least. Nobody spoke, and the guards kept their eyes fixed on Desmond in case he tried something. Desmond looked around at all of them, and then at the floor, still feeling several pairs of eyes watching him.

 

When they finally reached the Yard, Desmond was escorted out and met with the flashes of a huge amount of cameras.

 

"Mister Sycamore! What can you tell us about your choice to work _with_ the police?"

 

"Professor Sycamore, how did you get so bruised?"

 

"Sycamore! Can you comment on the recent events concerning Leon Bronev and Hershel Layton?"

 

Desmond just ignored them. If he said anything at all, who knows how the journalists could manipulate it and use it against him.

 

They entered the Yard after managing to get past the crowds, and saw Inspector Chelmey waiting for them.

 

"Well well, Sycamore. Fancy seeing you here. Decided to help us instead of hinder for once, eh?" The inspector said triumphantly.

 

"So it would seem..." Desmond replied quietly, his wrists beginning to hurt from wearing the handcuffs for so long.

 

“Mind if I talk to the professor in private for a moment?” Chelmey asked the guards.

 

“No skin off my nose. Do whatever you want.”

 

“Come on, Sycamore.”  


Desmond followed Chelmey to his office and sat down at the desk across from him.

 

“What do you want to talk to me about, Inspector?” He asked.

 

“Your friend came in before and told us a lot about what was going on inside that prison.”

 

“What did he tell you?”

 

"One of the guards is the reason for your current state, according to him. Now, we take accusations like this very seriously. Can you give us some kind of proof, or details about this?"

 

"Look at the security camera records. Every time it happened, they went down. There should be black spots."

 

“We’ll check that out as soon as we can.”

 

“Thank you, Inspector. Can we make sure we keep all of this quiet until you take action against the guard? I don’t know what he’d do if he found out what was going to happen to him.”

 

"Of course. Until the investigation into this is over, we'll assign someone else to you. I refuse to be taking chances with the press already hounding us like they are."

 

Chelmey rubbed his chin and looked annoyed for a moment, then stood.

 

"Come on, then; we've a criminal you're here to help us catch."

 

They exited the room and joined the rest of the officers that were stood outside.

 

“Gentlemen!” Chelmey called in order to get their attention. Once they were all quiet and looking at him, he continued. “This is Desmond Sycamore. He is going to aid us in our search for Leon Bronev. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Why are we letting a criminal help?’, well, I can tell you that he will probably do more for our investigation than any of you have done, so if anyone has anything to say against Mr Sycamore, then you tell it to me. Is all that understood?”

 

Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd, but no one dared to object. Chelmey looked satisfied with this, and then led Desmond through the room to a map labelled 'Last Known Movements'.

 

"This is all the places we've seen Bronev in the past few days. Possible sightings are marked in green, and definite ones are in red. Predicted next movements are in yellow, worked out by our behavioural analysts. But you know more about the man, so your guess is, in this case, better than mine."

 

“Have you checked the Nest? Since he’s trying to get Targent back up and running he might have gone back there.”

 

“We have. It was completely empty when we got there, so we deduced that they must have relocated their entire operation.”

 

Desmond kissed his teeth and studied the predicted movements, shaking his head at a couple.

 

"No matter what situation this man's in, he won't sink to below his standards. There's no point looking in hotels with less than five stars." He pointed out, indicating an array of pins in locations of hostels and dingy B&Bs.

 

“So we can cross those off the list, then.”

 

“We’re probably best checking the highest rated hotels in the area before anything else.”

 

“There are a fair few; I’ll send some of my men now.”

 

"As a matter of interest, have you questioned Emmy Altava at all? I'm not saying she's sheltering him, but she was loyal to him a few years ago. It would be a good idea to ask if she's had any kind of correspondence from him, because even if she isn't helping him, she may still hide that information."

 

Desmond felt guilty suggesting this - especially after all Emmy had done to try and help him and Paul - but he knew it was for the greater good. Bronev had already shot one person; who's to say he wouldn't do it again?

 

“That is a good point. I’d send some of my men to do the job, but I feel like they wouldn’t do it effectively. I think we should go down there.”

 

“We?”

 

“Of course. You’re the only one here that knows her personally so you might be able to getmore information out of her.”

 

"What about Inspector Grosky? Doesn't he still work here? He and Emmy seemed to have a friendship."

 

The inspector sighed, a little annoyed at the mention of his annoying brother-in-law.

 

"He was promoted and no longer works on the field as much... It would be hard to get him working on this case, I should reckon."

 

“I suppose he’s already done enough in his career to bring Targent down. When should we go see Emmy then?”

 

“There’s no time like the present. I’ll get my men to check all the hotels and then we’ll go.”

 

Desmond nodded, then was escorted to the door of the police station as Chelmey ordered around his team. Then, he appeared at his side, looking thoughtful.

 

"Anything I should know before we get there?"

 

“She can be dangerous when she wants to be, but as long as we don’t step out of line, it should be fine. So try not to ask anything _too_ personal.”

 

Chelmey hummed thoughtfully, and then led Desmond outside to his car. The ride to Emmy's flat was short, but slightly uncomfortable in its silence.

 

Desmond thought that she would have been working, but her distinctive yellow moped was sat outside, so she must have been in.

 

Chelmey rang the bell and waited for her to answer.

 

“Hello?” A voice greeted them.

 

“Hello, Miss Altava, this is Inspector Chelmey. I’m here with Desmond Sycamore. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Leon Bronev.”

 

“Um, hold on.”

 

She pushed the button to open the front door.

 

“Come on up.”

 

There was a definite shake to Emmy's voice as she put down the receiver, and Desmond narrowed his eyes for a moment before thinking of how close she and Bronev had been. She'd called him her 'uncle', hadn't she? That had to have some effect on a person.

 

Following Chelmey up to the top floor, he hummed thoughtfully.

 

Emmy had already opened the door and was stood in the doorway waiting for them.

 

“Hello.” She greeted, not sounding too happy.

 

“Hello again, Emmy.” Desmond replied to her.

 

“Shall we go inside and get this over with?”

 

"Uh, sure, come in. Can I make either of you some tea?"

 

Emmy stepped aside and the two men walked in, both looking around.

 

"That won't be necessary, Miss Altava." "Okay, uhm... Just in here, have a seat. What questions did you want to ask...?"

 

“We just want to know if you have had any correspondence with Leon Bronev since his escape from prison.”

 

“I haven’t.”  


“Are you sure? Do remember that lying to the police is a felony.”

 

"I'm not in the habit of committing crimes, Inspector Chelmey."

 

Emmy sat down in an armchair, nibbling at a biscuit.

 

"I'm sure. We're simply trying all our options, and we know you had contact with him up to and during the early part of his prison sentence."

 

Desmond watched Emmy carefully, and decided to intercede here, noticing how uncomfortable she seemed.

 

"Look, Emmy, I know how close you and him were. Didn't he adopt you or something? Anyway... I can understand if you were trying to cover anything for him."

 

“That is all in the past now and I would like it if you stopped trying to dig it up. I have told you already, I have had no recent contact with Bronev.”

 

Desmond was growing suspicious.”

 

“You sound too defensive. I’m beginning to suspect you aren’t telling the absolute truth, Emmy.”

 

Sighing, Emmy looked away, biting her lip.

 

"I saw him once. On the first day he got free, he came here..."

 

Her eyes started to well up with tears, and she wiped them away angrily. "He said he'd kill me if I told, and that he knows my every move..."

 

Her voice was halting, and choked by the sobs now shaking her body.

 

“Oh, god, Emmy, I’m so sorry.” Desmond said, feeling awful for prying so much.

 

But, then again, they needed this information. Sometimes prying was the most necessary thing. They needed to catch Bronev, and Desmond was determined to get as much information as he possibly could.

 

Chelmey huffed, glancing between the two. He was a little miffed that Desmond had gotten the information so easily.

 

"N-no, it's fine... Just... Catch him, please..." Emmy sniffled, drying her eyes a little.

 

"Are you alright to answer a few more questions...?"

 

“Oh, yes... I should be okay.” She said, composing herself.

 

“Do you have any idea where he might be?” Chelmey asked, stepping in.

 

"U-uhm... I'm guessing you tried the Nest, right...?"

 

Chelmey nodded, scrawling down notes.

 

"Well then, what about... God, I don't know... He'll stay in London, I'm sure of it." Emmy answered, scratching her head.

 

“How do you know that, if you don’t mind me asking? What reason does he have for not leaving London?”

 

“I... I don’t know. I just feel like he wouldn’t.”

 

Before Desmond could ask anything else, Chelmey closed his notebook and stood up.

 

“I think we’ve got all we need. Thank you for your time, Miss Altava.”

 

"Please... Call me if you need any more help..."

 

"Of course."

 

Emmy stood quickly and headed to open the door.

 

"And... How is Professor Layton? I haven't had a chance to visit him..."

 

“He’s fine as far as I know. Well, as fine as you can be after getting shot and being stuck in the hospital.”

 

There was an ounce of spite in Desmond’s tone. Emmy assumed it was because he was angry at Bronev, but it sounded a little like he knew something that he wasn’t letting on.

 

"Thank god... I must visit him soon." Emmy said, not meeting Desmond's eyes.

 

"Send him my regards." Desmond returned, watching her carefully.

 

Desmond and Chelmey made their way down the stairs and then back to the Yard without another word. Desmond’s brain was busy figuring things out. He was sure that Emmy wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he had no way of proving it.

 

Back up in the flat, Emmy let out a shaky sigh. She picked up the letter she'd hastily hidden down the side of her sofa and glared at it. This was all getting way out of hand, and she was stuck in the middle, once again. She hated that man! But she owed him her entire life...

 

She felt like she was betraying both sides. If she didn’t help Desmond, she was betraying an old friend, but if she didn’t help Bronev, then she was betraying her whole past. Bronev may have been like family to her, but he would easily dispose of her if she no longer proved useful.

 

She couldn't see a way out of this and it was tearing her apart. Already, she was looking at a sentence for impeding police investigations because of what she'd just done, and if it all came out, who knew what else could be pinned to her? A lot, she supposed.

 

Still, she would have to take things as they came, and worry about what was currently at hand. She couldn’t leave this letter unanswered, or who knows what Bronev would do. He would probably seek her out and try to talk to her face to face. She had already done enough to help him; it wouldn’t be fair if he made her do anymore. All of this would ruin her.

 

Glaring at the letter, she almost wished it would just burst into flames. No such miracle occurred. Instead, sighing, she sat down and started to compose a reply, hands shaking as she typed.

 

It took her a lot longer than she thought it would to write, but eventually she got it done.


	23. Chapter 23

Desmond, meanwhile, was still deep in thought. There was something of about what Emmy had told him and the Inspector, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. She was acting very suspicious, and Desmond needed to figure out why.

 

Could it be that she'd lied about her involvement? But what possible reason could she have to do that? Desmond was sure that - after what had happened in the Azran sanctuary - Emmy had turned away from that part of her life. Why would she go back there?

 

Surely she would have left that all behind her.

 

Desmond would have to investigate it further. Or, rather, he would have to get Paul to investigate on his behalf and then report back.

 

Sighing, Desmond wondered how best to get in contact with Paul with the least suspicion. He couldn't just waltz up to any telephone he liked and request to use it in his current situation; especially to get in contact with the man he'd been incarcerated with.

 

Perhaps Chelmey wouldn’t be too opposed to letting Paul visit Desmond at the Yard? It wouldn’t be any different than him visiting the prison as he had done earlier today. He’d just have to ask.

 

But of course, then there was the case of convincing Paul to go and see Emmy, let alone convincing him to question her involvement with Targent.

 

Then again, he could always just deal with that hurdle when it came to it. Getting Chelmey to agree to the visit was first. When he saw Paul, he'd be sure to come up with some way of convincing him.

 

He decided to wait until they got back to the Yard to ask Chelmey.

 

The journey back seemed to be a lot shorter than the journey there, and this relieved Desmond slightly. Both journeys were a little awkward to say the least.

 

Upon reaching the Yard, Desmond was escorted back into the building wordlessly, by two officers he'd never seen before. The guard that had attacked him was nowhere to be seen. Letting out a sigh of relief, Desmond decided to ask Chelmey then and there. If he was right that Emmy knew more than she was saying, it was best to ask her as soon as possible, he reckoned.

 

But, before he could say anything, Chelmey took him to one side and began talking.

 

“I can tell what you’re thinking, and I agree with you. There’s something not quite right going on with her; I don’t believe a word she’s saying.”

 

"Well she isn't going to talk to us at all. If I'm allowed to, I'd suggest getting someone she trusts to casually question her. I'd suggest Layton, but he's still in hospital..."

 

"So who do you suggest instead?"

 

“Paul. Emmy seems to trust him and she even tried to help us while we both in prison. I’m sure she’d be willing to talk to him.”

 

“From what I’ve gathered, he doesn’t have the best conversational skills.”

 

“No, but he’s the best shot we’ve got at this.”

 

“Alright. We’ll bring him in. You can try and convince him to do it. I certainly don’t want to talk to him.”

 

Desmond nodded, taking a seat and staring at the clock. He tried his best to plan how to convince Paul into this, sighing and rubbing his chin.

 

Before long, Paul was in the room with him, and it was time to put his slightly unplanned plan into action.

 

“Hi, Des.” He greeted, a warm smile playing on his features, “What did you want to see me about?”

 

"Do I need a reason to see you?" Desmond returned with a wink, patting the seat next to him and smiling back.

 

"The police that turned up at my door suggest so, yeah." Paul said dryly, his small smile turning into a grin for a moment.

 

“Well, I need you to talk to Emmy for us. We don’t trust her, really. We think she’s hiding something about Bronev.”

 

“And you want me to try and get this information out of her? Desmond, have you met me? I’m hardly a sparkling conversationalist.”

 

"You managed to charm me, didn't you?"

 

Desmond shrugged nonchalantly.

 

"Anyway, all you'd need to do is steer her onto the subject and see if she gets cagey at all, maybe snoop around her flat a little if she goes to the loo at some point." He continued.

 

“I don’t know, Des. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it.”

 

“You have to try. Please? For me?”

 

Desmond pulled a face that could only be described as a “puppy dog face” and Paul frowned at him.

 

“Okay, fine!”

 

Desmond beamed at Paul warmly, the pouty look on his face disappearing in a second.

 

"Thank you, Paul."

 

Paul folded his arms and sighed.

 

"You owe me, though."

 

“Don’t you worry, darling, I’ll make it worth your while.” Desmond said with a wink.

 

Paul’s cheeks flushed bright red at this.

 

"Y-yeah, you damn well better." He said, not quite making eye contact with Desmond.

 

"Oh, I will."

 

Smirking, Desmond leant back in his chair, watching Paul get more and more flustered.

 

Desmond laughed, but Paul’s face just got redder and redder.

 

“And how... exactly would you plan on making it up to me?”

 

“That’s a surprise.” Desmond winked again.

 

"You're a horrible tease, Des..." Paul complained, trying to rub away his blush.

 

"Y'know, Paul, you're *adorable* when you blush." Desmond grinned.

 

“Don’t you dare start that with me!”

 

“Aw, but Paul, look at your sweet little red face.” Desmond cooed.

 

“I’m sensing that you’re dropping hints here.”

 

“You would be correct.”

 

“Fine, I won’t call you cute anymore. But I’ll still think it.”

 

Smirking again, Desmond looked satisfied.

 

"Never been a crime to think, _my dear_." He said.

 

Paul shook his head, looking determinedly away from the other man.

 

Desmond just laughed again.

 

“Right... So... What am I doing again?” Paul asked, clearly having forgotten the plan altogether and the whole reason Desmond asked for him to come here.

 

“You’re going to visit Emmy and try and drive the conversation towards the topic of Bronev. Then you’ll wait for her to slip up and question her on it.”

 

"And what if I don't get any information out of her?" Paul questioned.

 

"Well then, I owe you nothing, and I have no need to make anything up to you." Desmond responded casually, shrugging, "Do your best, hm?"

 

Paul looked disappointed for a moment.

 

"Do I not get a reward for trying?" He asked.

 

"Nope. If you want a reward, you'd better succeed."

 

"In that case, I will not let you down."

 

"Thought you wouldn't." Desmond smirked at Paul, who looked back, half-flustered and half-impressed.

 

Checking the time, the former hummed thoughtfully.

 

"You'd better be off, in case she decides to go to sleep early."

 

"What, I don't get any kind of good luck gift?"

 

"You don't really believe in all that, do you?"

 

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't. But it's always best to be on the safe side."

 

Desmond rolled his eyes and planted a quick kiss on Paul's lips.

 

"There. Good luck. Now go."

 

"Thank you. See you later, then."

 

"See you."

 

Paul smiled warmly and stood up, moving towards the door.

 

Desmond watched him leave contentedly, folding his arms, but then hearing his stomach growl. When was the last time he actually ate?

 

“Excuse me, Inspector?” He asked Chelmey politely, “Is there any chance of getting something to eat?”

 

“Dinner’s in half an hour, if you can wait that long.”

 

“That should be fine, thank you.”

 

“You know, Sycamore, we can arrange conjugal visits if you wish.”

 

Desmond blushed furiously at this and couldn’t even bring himself to reply. Chelmey laughed at him.

 

“Only joking.” He chuckled.

 

Desmond sighed and rubbed his face a little, sighing, then looked away from the inspector.

 

"Until dinner, though, we could use your help working out Bronev's next steps." Chelmey said, right back to business.

 

"I'd be glad to." Desmond replied.

 

The small amount of time before dinner was very stressful indeed. Bronev's movements didn't seem to follow a pattern in the slightest, which made it incredibly difficult to figure out what he was going to do next.

 

Desmond reasoned that - if Bronev truly was trying to reform Targent - perhaps he'd be trying to get his old, more loyal members back on side. As he thought, he wondered if - even if she wasn't hiding anything - Emmy would be able to help, by providing them with any details about these people.

 

If she wasn’t already helping him, Desmond hoped that she would be willing to help, despite the fact that she would have been accused of helping Bronev. He knew that Paul wouldn’t be the most tactful person when having this talk with her, so he’d be surprised if she didn’t hate them after this.

 

He wondered for a moment how Paul was getting along, and hoped he was being as un-heavy handed as he could be. Humming thoughtfully, he adjusted himself in the chair and looked back to the map of Bronev's movements, trying to understand what he was doing.


	24. Chapter 24

Paul, meanwhile, was trying to figure out a way to talk to Emmy. She hadn’t seemed too happy to talk to him when he visited her at her office, so who could tell how thrilled she’d be at him visiting her at her own home.

 

Pacing in front of the bell for the hundredth time, he tried to think of some natural segue onto the subject. He checked the time and made a face, deciding simply to go for it and make it up as he goes.

 

He pushed the buzzer and almost immediately he heard Emmy’s voice through the speaker.

 

“Hello?”

  
  
“Hi, Emmy, it’s Paul. Is it okay if I come up and talk to you?”

 

“Um, yeah sure. Come on up.”

 

The door clicked open and Paul entered, still planning as he climbed the stairs. Knocking at Emmy's door, he was soon let into the surprisingly fancy-looking flat.

 

"Hi Paul. Fancy some tea or something?" Emmy offered, smiling a little.

 

“You got coffee?”

 

“Yeah, I think so, hold on I’ll check. Come in, sit down.”

 

Paul walked into the main room, subtly looking around for anything that might give away some information about Bronev. He found nothing, so he just sat down on one of the sofas.

 

"Do you take sugar, Paul?" Emmy called from the kitchen.

 

"Three sugars, no milk, thanks." He returned, noticing her laptop sat on the table.

 

He wondered if there was anything hidden on it, but it would be quite the invasion of privacy if he looked. Then again, he had to help bring Bronev down by any means; he didn’t want to let Desmond down.

 

There wasn't any time for indecision, though. He quickly strolled over and opened up the laptop, glad to see it wasn't logged off. To buy himself a little longer, he glanced over to the kitchen and hummed thoughtfully.

 

"Actually, changed my mind. Milk as well, please."

 

“Oh, okay. Will do.” Emmy called back, “Can I get you anything else.”

 

“Some... toast? If it’s not too much trouble?”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine. I won’t be a minute.”

 

Looking back down to the laptop, Paul quickly started searching through files, looking for anything that could be telling of an involvement with Bronev.

 

"What do you want on your toast?"

 

"Uhm, some jam'd be great."

 

Hurrying now, he started clicking through recent emails and documents, rubbing his chin.

 

He came across a word document, which was formatted like a letter. And it was addressed to Bronev.

 

But before Paul had a chance to read it, Emmy came back in the room and he was forced to close it and shut the laptop as fast as humanly possible.

 

Luckily for him, Emmy was busy focusing on not spilling the coffee, so she didn't notice this rapid movement. Instead, when she reached Paul at the table, she simply smiled warmly.

 

"I hope you don't mind raspberry jam; I'm allergic to strawberries..."

 

She said with a shrug, taking her own coffee from the tray she'd balanced everything on and sipping it.

 

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all. Raspberry jam is just as nice as strawberry; in fact, it might even be a bit better.”

 

He was rambling now, and he needed to calm down. Emmy gave him a look which suggested that she realised he was acting strangely.

 

“Everything okay, Paul?”

 

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Just got a lot on my mind, you know.”

 

"How's Desmond doing?" She asked, wondering if something had come up since he visited her earlier that was causing him to worry like this.

 

"Oh, he's fine, yeah." Paul nodded, trying to slow down his speech a little.

 

To stop himself from tripping up, he took a large bite of toast, looking away from Emmy.

 

“Well,” he swallowed his mouthful, “As okay as you can be while trying to find the most dangerous criminal of our day.”

 

“How’s the search going?”

 

“Not too well, I gather. You haven’t seen anything that might help, have you?”

 

"Can't say I have... Sorry, Paul."

 

Emmy sighed and shrugged, sipping her coffee and glancing towards her laptop. She noticed how out of place it was, and hummed thoughtfully, looking back at Paul.

 

"Anyway, whilst you're here, I was wondering..." She said, trying to move the conversation away from the topic, "Would you like to do a follow up interview, all about life in prison? The previous article whipped up a little interest there, and I'm sure this one would be successful."

 

“As long as it’s nothing too personal.”

 

“Don’t worry, it’ll just be some general questions. You know, what the food’s like, what the guards are like. That kind of thing.”

 

“I don’t know, Emmy. It doesn’t seem like it’d serve a purpose anymore. I mean, I’m already out, and Desmond isn’t even stuck in that prison anymore. The situation’s taken a turn for the better, I’d say.”

 

Emmy sighed and nodded.

 

"I suppose you're right. Say, is Desmond out for good now, then?" She asked, tilting her head.

 

Paul shook his head, then shrugged, sipping his own drink.

 

"Not entirely sure. Maybe if they find Bronev, he'll be let out for his help."

 

“I certainly hope he will be. He’d be more than deserving if he managed to bring Bronev down.”

 

“Hopefully the police think that too.”

 

Emmy could see that Paul was subtly glancing at the laptop every so often.

 

Faking a yawn, she decided that it was time for Paul to leave, before he got any ideas about looking through her laptop.

 

"Boy, I'm exhausted..." She commented, not at all subtle.

 

"Oh, do you want me to go? If you're tired, I should probably go."

 

"Yeah it might be best if you do. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow so I want to get an early night."

 

"Ah, sure. I, uh, hope all goes well, then."

 

Paul stood with a nod, casting a last glance at the laptop and hoping that what he'd seen would be enough for the police.

 

"Thanks, Paul. It was nice to see you." Emmy said quietly, standing to see him to the door.

 

He left the flat with a smile, the idea of telling the police about what he found as soon as he possibly could.

 

Emmy shut the door and let out a sigh of relief.

 

She was overjoyed that Paul was gone, and glad he hadn't looked at her laptop. She hadn't exactly hidden the letter well. With a small, weak smile, she started to tidy up the remains of the toast and their coffees. As she worked, she quietly assured herself that this was the right thing to do. Her loyalty had never done her wrong before; it had been her fault for getting so attached to Layton and Luke, and still Uncle Bronev forgave her...

 

She couldn't abandon him now. She's been through too much with Targent, and they had helped her so much. They were the only family she had, after all.

 

Paul, meanwhile, still had a lot going through his mind on his way home. He knew she was up to something, and it was most likely to do with Bronev.

 

That letter he'd seen just had to be enough. As much as he liked the woman, if she was helping Bronev, then there were more important things than friendship on the line. He decided to go to the station first thing in the morning, and see what could be done about everything.

 

He fell asleep pretty much as soon as he got home. He didn’t even bother going to his bedroom, he just collapsed on the sofa and slept very deeply.

 

When he woke up, it was already midday, so he got himself together as fast as he could and headed down to Scotland Yard.

 

As soon as he arrived, he was directed to Chelmey's office, where both Desmond and the Inspector himself were sat, in deep conversation. Clearing his throat to announce himself, Paul stepped inside and shut the door.

 

“Hello, Mr Topen.” Chelmey greeted him.

 

“Hi, I think I’ve found something that would be helpful.”

 

“Straight into business, I like it. What’ve you found?”

 

“I went to see Emmy Altava last night, and I found a draft of a letter on her laptop. It looked like a reply to a letter from Bronev.”

 

Chelmey raised an eyebrow and huffed.

 

"I knew there was something she wasn't telling us. Thank you, Mr Topen; this may well be a break in the case for us. I'll get my men to seize the laptop immediately."

 

Chelmey left the room to tell the rest of the men the news.

 

As soon as the door shut, Desmond leapt up and tightly hugged Paul.

 

“You’ve done it!”

 

Paul hugged back even tighter, smiling to himself.

 

"It seems I have." He responded, letting himself grin a little.

 

"This could really be it, Paul; the way to bring down Bronev once and for all." Desmond congratulated, "Well done."

 

“We’ll do it, Des, we’ll do it together. Then we won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

 

“What’s going to happen to Emmy now?” Desmond asked, breaking away from the hug.

 

“I have no idea. Probably nothing good.”

 

"It's a shame; I really had high hopes that she'd changed for good..."

 

Sighing, Desmond sat down, inviting Paul to sit next to him. The latter shrugged and smiled reassuringly before sitting close.

 

"Can't win 'em all, Des."

 

“I know. I just thought that after everything that had happened, people would have rethought things. Everything that happened in the Azran sanctuary changed us all in one way or another, I guess I just hoped people had changed for the better.”

 

"Maybe she did, but she fell back. Old habits, so they say."

 

Putting an arm around Desmond's shoulder, Paul smiled reassuringly before continuing.

 

"Anyway, it's not on you at all. It's all gonna be in the past soon enough."

 

“I suppose.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, Des. Everything will be okay. And hey, think about it, if you help to bring Bronev to justice, you might be considered a hero; they might even let you go free.”  


“Ha! I doubt it. You don’t go from a life sentence to freedom just like that.”

 

The bitter tone in Desmond's voice made Paul flinch, and he pulled him into a hug again.

 

"Well they'll at least reduce the sentence, I'm sure of that much." He said quietly, reassuring the other man as best he could.

 

“Just because you’re sure of something, doesn’t mean it’s actually going to happen.”

 

“I’ll argue your case. This Chelmey seems like a reasonable guy, so why wouldn’t he help you out?”

 

“I don’t know, I just don’t think he would. He may be a kind person deep down, but he’s also very dedicated to his job and he knows what’s right and what’s wrong to do.”

 

"Well you've just gotta show him you've changed, and you deserve another chance outside. I'll help you, and then you can be out of prison, and do whatever you like again."

 

Desmond sighed and shook his head a little.

 

“Thanks, Paul, but I really don’t think it’s going to work.”

 

“There’s no harm in trying, is there?”

 

Desmond smiled weakly.

 

“I suppose not.”

 

Nodding, Paul pulled Desmond back into a hug, a thought coming to mind to cheer him up or at least stop him being so down.

 

"Now that's out the way... I believe you mentioned a reward?" He chuckled, raising an eyebrow at Desmond.

 

“I believe I did, but now is hardly the time for that, Paul. We have work to do.”

 

“I’m sure we could find time. We could find somewhere quiet, somewhere private...”

 

"Paul..."

 

"There's plenty of empty rooms in this place."

 

Paul had lowered his voice now, and he was leaning close to Desmond, smirking. The other man blushed a little, glancing away.

 

“Paul, not now. Can you really not wait a little while?”

 

“Not while you’re sat there looking so delicious.” Paul winked.

 

“Well, that’s too bad for you, isn’t it? You’ll get your ‘reward’ when Bronev’s been caught, okay?”

 

Paul pouted and sighed.

 

"He'd better hurry up and get back in jail, then." He said, putting an arm around Desmond's waist.

 

“Then we’d better get back to work then.” Desmond said, standing up and smirking at Paul.

 

Paul pulled a face, jokingly annoyed at Desmond’s “rejection”.

 

“Don’t look at me like that, you’ll get your reward, I promise.” Desmond winked at the other man.

 

"You know how to make a promise you can't break, Des?" Paul asked lightly, raising an eyebrow and smiling.

 

Rolling his eyes, Desmond kissed him quickly, then gestured to the door.

 

"We really do have things to be doing, now, Paul."

 

“Don’t just stand there then. Come on!”

 

Paul hopped to his feet and headed for the door, over taking Desmond by a long shot.

 

Desmond rolled his eyes again, and followed him through the door.

 

"Ah, you two, just the people I needed." Chelmey greeted the two as they left the room, "The Commissioner wants to personally thank you for your help, Mr Topen."

 

“What? Really? Me? He wants to thank me?”

 

“Of course. You’ve done a hell of a lot to help us with this case.”

 

"Huh. How the tables have turned, eh?"

 

Paul chuckled, chuffed by this turn of events, and Desmond smiled at him proudly.

 

“From master criminal to hero, not bad.” Desmond remarked.

 

“How about “Master Hero”!”

 

“Let’s not go that far.”

 

Paul made a face as they both started to follow Chelmey up to the Commissioner's office.

 

"You're no fun, Des." He complained jokingly.

 

"No fun at all; you're right."

 

“Geez, that was a bit miserable. I was only joking.”

 

“Oh, I know. So was I. I’m a delight.”

 

“Well, I wouldn’t...”

 

“And you know it.”

 

“... Okay, fine, you’re fun.”

 

Desmond grinned warmly at Paul, glad to feel this happy again.

 

"I thought you'd see things my way." He said lightly, winking.

 

Paul grinned back, and then quickly looked up when Chelmey cleared his throat.

 

“If you two could stop flirting when we enter the Commissioner’s office, that would be wonderful. He expects a certain level of professionalism whether you work here or not.”

 

“Sure thing, Inspector.”

 

“Sorry, Inspector.”

 

Chelmey chuckled a bit and then stopped outside the fancy looking door to the office. Straightening up, he fixed his coat and made himself a lot more presentable, and the other two saw it only right to follow suit as best they could.

 

Paul wasn’t exactly dressed smartly; he was just wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Though, Desmond was dressed arguably even worse, but that wasn’t exactly his choice; he was still wearing his prison jumpsuit that was still stained with blood; so he didn’t look at all suitable to be meeting with the Commissioner of Scotland Yard.


	25. Chapter 25

Shifting uncomfortably, both men followed Chelmey in, awkwardly standing behind the only guest chair in the room. The Commissioner watched with a penetrating look as they entered, not taking his eyes off them for a moment.

 

"Commissioner, sir; Mr Paul Topen and Professor Desmond Sycamore."

 

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.” The Commissioner started, “But unfortunately the circumstances under which we are meeting are less than pleasurable. And I never thought I’d see the day when a dangerous criminal is standing in my office to aid an investigation.” He said, gesturing towards Desmond.

 

At this comment, Paul bit his tongue, stopping himself from pointing out that *he* was a dangerous criminal too.

 

"Uhm, _reformed_ dangerous criminal." Desmond corrected quietly, adding a little sarcasm to his following words, "My time inside so far has quite fully beaten out that old persona."

 

“That doesn’t change anything. You can’t change who you once were; you committed those crimes, didn’t you?”

 

“Well, yes, but...”

 

“My point exactly. You are here to aid us in re-capturing Bronev, and then you will go back to prison, where you belong.”

 

Something in the Commissioner's attitude didn't sit right with Desmond, and he couldn't help but be incensed by it.

 

"I at least hope you've taken care of that disgusting employee of yours. Taken the correct legal proceedings... I'm still waiting for an apology for the treatment I received."

 

The Commissioner looked taken aback and clueless, staring at Desmond now.

 

" _What_  'treatment'? For what does the Police Force owe you an apology? Surely any sane person would suggest it's the other way round."

 

“I was beaten mercilessly by one of your guards. He shut off the security cameras and then nearly killed me! Several times, in fact! Are you blind, or are you just choosing to ignore the massive patches of blood on my outfit?”

 

“I will not be spoken to in this way! Learn some manners before you think about opening your mouth again.”

 

"... I'm _so_ sorry, yo-"

 

"Des." Paul cut him off, nudging his knee, "It's not worth it."

 

Biting back an insult, Desmond glowered down at his knees.

 

“That’s more like it.” The Commissioner remarked, “Anyway, Mr Topen, it was you that I wanted to see. I believe you found some evidence that may help us find Bronev?”

 

“I did. I visited Emmy Altava last night and found a letter addressed to Bronev on her laptop. From what I gathered, it appeared to be a reply to a letter she’d already received from him, so she must be communicating with him, and she might have some clue about where he is.”

 

The Commissioner hummed, and then turned to Chelmey, eyes skating over Desmond as if he wasn't there.

 

"I'll be safe in assuming you've already sent people to recover the laptop?" He asked.

 

"Yes, sir; they should be back any minute now." Chelmey affirmed, nodding.

 

“Good work, gentlemen. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do, thank you.”

 

Chelmey nodded and turned to the door. Paul and Desmond followed suit, exiting the room.

 

"Well he's a bit of a d-"

 

"Des. As much as I agree..."

 

Paul nodded towards Chelmey, who was walking a few steps in front.

 

"Best not annoy him too, right?"

 

Desmond sighed.

 

“I suppose. But I should have to deal with being talked to like that. It’s just rude.” He said quietly.

 

“You weren’t exactly the most polite person there, Desmond.”

 

"All I did was state facts."

 

Paul raised an eyebrow at Desmond and made a face.

 

"Not exactly in the best way, though." He pointed out.

 

Desmond went to reply, but his words were cut short when a police officer hurried up to Chelmey and began to report loudly.

 

"Inspector Chelmey, sir! Miss Altava's gone missing, and that laptop of her's too!"

 

“What?! Where’s she gone?”

 

“We don’t know, sir. There was no trace of her when we arrived and no clue to where she was going.”

 

“She’ll have gone to find Bronev.” Desmond inputted, “So if we can find any evidence suggesting where she’s gone, we’ll find him.”

 

"We have men searching the flat for further clues." The officer supplied, standing to attention.

 

"Get the CCTV in the area. If we're lucky, she might lead us straight to the man." Chelmey ordered, rubbing his chin and looking deep in thought.

 

“God, I should have come here sooner.” Paul sighed, looking obviously disappointed in himself.

 

“You did all you could. For all we know, she could have left as soon as you’d gone last night.” Desmond reassured him.

 

"Yeah, but if she didn't..."

 

"Then it still isn't your fault." Desmond responded, shaking his head.

 

The two men followed Chelmey into the main investigation room, where people were working frantically at computers to pin down surveillance in the area.

 

Luckily, the lines hadn’t been cut, so there was at least some footage to go by. But, not quite enough. It seemed like Emmy had been extremely careful to avoid the cameras at all costs.

 

The officers were talking amongst themselves, trying to figure it all out; none of them seemed to be coming to any conclusions, though. Paul, however, had an idea.

 

“Hey, guys, look at what she’s wearing.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“She’s wearing boots. There weren’t any boots by the front door last night, but there were plenty of other shoes, so she must have known what type of shoes she’d need for wherever she was going.”

 

"Well, then, where would you go in London that needs boots? She's obviously not leaving the area, since she's got no kind of bag or suitcase with her." Chelmey harrumphed.

 

"Well, with the way she's going, somewhere by the river, maybe?" Desmond suggested, "It's always pretty muddy there..."

 

“There are plenty of canal boats down there. Maybe Bronev owns one of them, and that’s where he’s been hiding?” Paul added.

 

“Has anybody checked down there yet?”

 

The police officers collectively shook their heads.

 

“Then it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? Let’s go!”

 

With a few quick orders, officers were sent scurrying about to prepare things, and Chelmey signalled to Paul and Desmond.

 

"This way." He said, walking them quickly towards the carpark, "Now I don't expect either of you to do anything stupid, alright?"

 

“Don’t worry, Inspector. We’ll be on our best behaviour.” Paul assured.

 

“You better be. I’m not going to be held responsible for any problems that may occur in this investigation. If you do anything daft, then it’s your own bloody fault.”

 

"Alright, alright..."

 

Paul grinned a little as they got into Chelmey's car and set off for the Thames near where Emmy was predicted to be. Desmond took a shaky breath, hoping that this would be it now, that they'd find and arrest Bronev and it would all be over.

 

He wasn’t sure how much more he could deal with all of this. This had to be the end of it, it just had to be.

 

The journey to the river seemed to take a little too long in Desmond’s opinion; he just wanted to get there and get this all over with. If Emmy and Bronev were there, they would arrest them and it would all be over; if they weren’t there, then they would just have to look somewhere else.

 

The tension was killing him.

 

As soon as they pulled up, Desmond nearly jumped out of the car, closely followed by Paul.

 

"Okay, so now it's just a matter of working out where they are." Paul stated, looking around.

 

"Easier said than done; it's not like they'll have a giant neon sign saying 'Targent Water-Based HQ Here!', will they?" Desmond responded sharply, a little on edge.

 

“Well, no. But there is a big ass boat right over there.” Paul pointed to an incredibly large ship on the water that much bigger than any of the others, “If I were to place a bet on where they are. I’d say there.”

 

“Huh.”

 

"Blimey o'Riley; that's a boat and a half." Chelmey exclaimed, coming up behind the other two after locking up the car.

 

"So what's the plan, Inspector?"

 

“We sneak in as quietly as we can, we find them, and then we arrest them.”

 

“What if it’s not their boat?”

 

“Then we apologize and move along.”

 

“Seems simple enough.”

 

Chelmey nodded and gestured for the other two men to fall silent as they crept up towards the boat. Desmond and Paul followed closely, trying to get a look into the windows. Unfortunately, the curtains were drawn, raising their suspicions.

 

“Yeah, it definitely looks like someone’s hiding in there.” Paul stated in a hushed voice.

 

“This boat’s big enough to have a lot of rooms. We’re going to have to be quiet while we look for them; they might not be the only people in there.” Desmond figured.

 

"I'll take the front entrance. You two head round to see if there's a second way in." Chelmey ordered, carefully stepping onto the boat in the hopes that it wouldn't dip too much in the water.

 

As soon as this plan was formulated, a siren called out, and it sounded like it was coming from the boat. There was a man peering out of a window who must have seen them coming.

 

Desmond and Paul exchanged a look of panic as the siren went off, and Chelmey quickly stepped back off of the boat, noticing the man but unable to get a proper look. From Desmond's point of view, though, he could easily see him. His face settled into a dark scowl.

 

The boat was reasonably fast, but Desmond was faster. As the boat distanced itself from the side of the canal, Desmond broke into a sprint. The boat was getting further and further away; he would have to be quick.

 

“Desmond, no!” Paul called after him.

 

But it was too late; Desmond leapt off the ground, jumping a large distance, and landing on the deck of the boat with a thud.

 

Letting out a wheeze, Desmond took a moment to regain both his balance and his breath. He knew that Bronev would know he's on board, so he had to play this carefully, get the upper hand on him somehow. It was stupid of him not to have a weapon, but this wasn't exactly their original plan.

 

He could hear heavy, fast footsteps getting gradually closer, and it sounded like there were a lot of people heading his way; he had to hide.

 

He went through the nearest door to him, which lead to a corridor. There were several doors that went off from the corridor, so Desmond would have to be smart about which one he went through.

 

In the few moments he had, he evaluated his choices and quickly ducked into a room that looked much less used than the others. Closing the stiff door tightly, he paused for a moment to breathe, listening to the sound of almost military-standard marching uncomfortably close by.


	26. Chapter 26

“Well, hello there.” A voice called from behind him.

 

As it turned out, even though the room looked unused, it was being used this very moment.

 

Desmond whipped round to come face to face with Bronev and Emmy, who were sitting casually at a desk on the far side of the room.

 

He couldn't help but let out a groan of annoyance. Of all the rooms, he had to pick the least helpful one. Sighing, he prepared himself for whatever was to come, glaring at the two.

 

"You know this can't happen, Bronev. Targent cannot and will not be reformed."

 

“I think it can. In fact, I think it already had. Targent never truly fell apart, Desmond, we just went into the shadows for a while.”

 

Desmond turned to Emmy, not wanting to gratify Bronev’s speech with a response.

 

“Why are you doing this, Emmy?”

 

“I have no choice. This is where my loyalties lie and I can’t abandon them.”

 

"I really did have hopes you'd changed."

 

Desmond looked at Emmy with disgust, kissing his teeth. Emmy looked back, folding her arms.

 

"And I thought the same back when we were on the Bostonius. I suppose no one ever truly changes, do they?"

 

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

 

“Yes it does, Desmond, don’t be stupid. This is how the world works. Everyone thinks they’re right, and in the end it turns out that that one person is.”

 

“And you think you’re the one that’s right?”

 

"Well of course I do. Now, I'll give you one last chance, Desmond." Bronev snarled, spitting the name with spite and contempt, as if he still couldn't believe he'd changed it after over 40 years, "Work with us. Share your knowledge with us."

 

“I will never work with you.”

 

“That is a shame. I was really hoping that this would be easy.”

 

Bronev raised a pistol, that he had obviously been hiding under the desk, and pointed it in Desmond’s direction.

 

"As had I."

 

Desmond was hardly scared. He knew his life was in the balance, but more important things were at play now. He had to stop Bronev, or at the very least play for time. Who knew what Targent would do if they regained their full power?

 

He glanced around, keeping very still and hoping not to provoke an attack. Casting his eyes around for some kind of weapon or cover, he bit his tongue, not seeing anything of use. He didn't have long.

 

“The clock’s ticking, Desmond. What will it be?”

 

Desmond didn’t have any options. There was nothing he could use to defend himself, and there was absolutely no way that he was going to give up so easily; joining Targent was the last thing he was going to do.

 

He stepped slowly towards the door, trying anything to buy himself some time.

 

"What is Targent actually planning to do...?"

 

"Rule the world. Hmph, did you expect me to start _monologuing_?"

 

“Just thought you would have wanted to explain everything to me. You know, try and convince me to join by telling me your master plan?”

 

“Now why would I do that?”

 

“It seems like a nicer way to do it than pointing a gun in my face.”

 

"It may only just have occurred to you, but 'nice' is not an adjective one uses to describe me."

 

Bronev gestured with his gun to Emmy, and she nodded, standing and taking a position behind Desmond. As she blocked the door, she took out a gun, pointing straight to his spine. Desmond could feel how shaky the hold was, how much the cold barrel shivered against his back. She was the weaker link here, for certain.

 

“You don’t want to do this, Emmy. I know you don’t. It’s not too late for you to change your mind.”

 

“Yes it is.” She replied in a stern voice; one that she was evidently trying hard to put on.

 

“No it isn’t. You can leave here with me and we can put things right.”

 

"Why would I? I've got no life left; I'll be put in prison the moment the police get their hands on me. Targent and Uncle Bronev... They're my only chance at normality."

 

"You call *this* normality? Emmy, please just take a moment to realise everything that's happening here. This 'uncle' of yours is a wanted murderer. He killed my entire family. He shot Layton, who was a friend of yours, for christ's sake!"

 

“No he didn’t! I did! I did it, okay?”

 

“What?”

 

“I shot him. He didn’t tell anyone it was me because he didn’t want to get me in trouble. I guess he still had some faith in me...”

 

“Right, I’ve had enough of this.” Bronev announced, cutting through the conversation, “Emmy, move aside. I’m finishing this.”

 

Before Emmy could move away, Desmond felt something inside him click. She had shot Layton, then he'd stuck his neck out for her, and still she went grovelling back to Bronev. With a noise of anger, he grabbed her by the arm and pushed her in front of him, almost like a shield. She let out a gasp of surprise, trying to squirm out of the grip or at least land a solid kick on Desmond.

 

"Get _off_ of me!"

 

“Now, are we going to do this the easy way?” Desmond asked, directing his question to Bronev, “Both of you can come quietly without any argument, or I can make you come with me by force.”

 

“Oh for god’s sake, Desmond...” Bronev sighed, raising the gun again.

 

“If you want to get to me, you have to go through her.”

 

"Oh, _please_ , Desmond." Emmy growled, jamming her elbow into his ribs, and then hitting him around the head.

 

Desmond let out a shout of pain, but didn't let his grip on the young woman break.

 

Bronev rolled his eyes at the situation laid out in front of him.

 

“Desmond, this is ridiculous, I refuse to keep on playing your games. Let her go.”

 

“You want to talk about games? How about that fun little trick you pulled back at the prison, huh? Leaving me behind as a distraction while you escaped yourself, that was a right laugh, wasn’t it?”

 

"You keep trying to get me talking and you keep failing."

 

Bronev stepped towards the struggling pair and gestured his gun laxly.

 

"Shoot me and you risk shooting Emmy." Desmond warned, glaring.

 

The older man smirked, a dark, truly evil look clouding his face.

 

"Her part in this mission is played. I couldn't care less."

 

“What?” Emmy cried, tears beginning to sting her eyes, “Uncle Bronev, you wouldn’t!”

  
  
“My dear, I think I would. Desmond here is the one that wouldn’t let you get hurt.”

 

Desmond bit the inside of his cheek, trying to think of a way to get both Emmy and himself out of this and avoid either of them being shot.

 

Emmy was frozen now, no longer fighting against Desmond's grip. She breathed shakily, staring at Bronev. Yet again, her loyalty had failed her. Every time, she'd been certain Bronev - the man who rescued and raised her - was in the right; that he cared about her... When it came down to it, though, all she was another indoctrinated, brainwashed foot soldier. How could she have been _so_ wrong?

 

"Uncle Bronev, I'm begging you, it's _me_! Emmeline! I thought you cared about me!"

 

“I don’t care about an awful lot, girl, so that wasn’t exactly an easy mistake to make. However, I do value your life more than his, so I’ll give you one more chance to move out of the way.”

 

Now, Emmy was frightened, but she did know what the right thing to do was. It was only a matter of which emotion would take control of her. If it were fear, she would move out of the way, but if it was courage, she would stay right where she was.

 

“I’m not going anywhere, Bronev.”

 

Desmond let go of her in an attempt to get her to move.

 

“Emmy, don’t do this. Save yourself. It’s the only way you can get out of here.”

 

Emmy stayed put. Desmond didn’t like this. And Bronev was only getting more and more annoyed.

 

Desmond weighed up his options, and decided to do what he thought was the best thing to do. He shoved Emmy out of the way, hoping it would distract Bronev for long enough so that he would be able to get through the door.

 

How wrong he was. How very wrong.

 

He felt a sudden weight in his chest, and saw smoke coming from the barrel of Bronev’s pistol.

 

Before he could even register the pain, he felt himself beginning to choke on blood in his mouth. Then agony radiated from the bullet in his chest and he let out a wail, grasping forward as if it would help him stay upright. To no avail, though. He collapsed to the ground, lying near motionless on the floor of the boat as he cried out.

 

This was wrong. This wasn't how this was supposed to play out! He was supposed to... To...

 

Desmond blacked out.

 

Emmy let out a gasp, scrambling to her feet, then growled angrily. She didn't think about her actions at all - they just came to her. Before Bronev could comprehend what she was doing, she had kicked him in the chest, and then followed it up with repeated blows to his head until he went flying back and crashing into the table, dropping his gun. With assured movements, she collected the weapon and pointed it at him, hands not shaking at all.

 

"Stay where you are, Bronev, or... I won't hesitate to shoot." She said coldly, eyes like slits.

 

"Hmph, your training paid off. But you couldn't do it. I'm your 'Uncle Bronev', Emmeline." He muttered fearlessly, voice quietly commanding, "Listen to me. Put. Down. The gun."

 

“No. All my life you’ve tried to tell me that all of this is what’s right. But you were wrong. There is nothing right about any of this. You kill people! You’re nothing but a monster!” She choked out, tears welling in her eyes.

 

“You’ve done exactly the same things I have. You’re no better than me.”

 

"At least... At least I can stop. I'll _gladly_ go to prison for what I've done! I'm sick of this ever-present guilt, the feeling I'll be found out at any moment! All those years after you went to prison, I was _so_ scared! I thought I'd be taken to prison at any time, and now I realise I _should_ go! But you... You think you're above law, and justice, and you can just make your own rules!" Emmy snarled, eyes wide as furious tears spilled out, "Well... If you think you're above the law, your... Your end should be too!"

 

Emmy finally broke. She had to do this. She knew _how_ to do this. It was just a matter of emotion. This man had brought her up, taught her everything she knew... He was her uncle!

 

"Emmeline! Put down the gun this instant, or I swear to god I _will_ kill you." Bronev warned, looking half-desperate to find a weapon of his own.

 

No, this evil husk of a man was no longer her uncle, and - judging by the bullet flying from the gun in her hands - no longer alive.

 

Her hands were shaking and she dropped the gun as Bronev fell to the floor. There was blood pouring out of a hole in the centre of his chest, and as far as Emmy could tell, he wasn’t breathing.

 

Just like that she had gone from a self assured woman to a frightened little girl. There was blood covering the floor and two bodies just lying there.

 

No, only one body. Desmond had to still be alive.

 

She went to check, but before she could do anything she heard loud, fast footsteps coming in her direction.

 

With a violent swear, she raised the gun again, not truly wishing to shoot anyone else, but knowing that she had to survive any agents on board, even if it was only to spend the rest of her life in prison. In the same instant, she glanced to the floor, noticing the blood tracking in drips, drags and splatters along the floor, in the same direction as the sound of the footsteps. Why had Desmond gone _towards_ these agents?!


	27. Chapter 27

The door swung open violently, startling Emmy, and in ran none other than Paul and Inspector Chelmey.

 

“What the hell’s going on in here?” Chelmey asked, realising that he’d just stepped into a puddle of blood.

 

“I.... I....” Emmy tried to speak, but to no avail. She was still shaking.

 

Paul, on the other hand, was frozen stiff.

 

"What the _fuck_ happened, Emmy?!" He snapped quickly, managing to glare up at her.

 

He saw the gun by her feet, and the blood shining on her shoes, and he knew that nothing good could come of the dead body behind her. Then his eyes fell properly to the other body, and he went pale, letting out a yell of despair.

 

“What happened...” He asked in a weak voice.

 

He knelt down next to Desmond, rolling him onto his back and brushing the hair out of his face. He wasn’t breathing. And now Paul wasn’t breathing. All he could do was stare, wide eyed, at the unconscious, bloody man than was lying in front of him.

 

"B-Bronev... He shot him. Desmond tried... He tried to protect me... So I... Returned the favour... I killed Bronev..." Emmy mumbled softly, voice choked by halting sobs.

 

Paul didn't hear her. He was still transfixed by the body in front of him. With shaking hands, he pulled it up, trying to hold him closely just once.

 

Chelmey finally recovered from his shock, and instantly began to radio for back up and an air ambulance. There was an undeniably grim look on his face; he didn't like how this case had ended up.

 

"Miss Altava, I'm afraid to say that, despite your heroics, I now have to place you under arrest for multiple counts of murder, assault, and perverting the course of justice." He intoned, picking his way past the pools of blood to clap handcuffs onto Emmy, who stood waiting, "You do not have to say anything, but, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

 

"... I admit to all charges against me." Emmy responded quietly.

 

She didn't resist at all. All she did was stare blankly at Paul and Desmond, at the blood all around the room, at Bronev's corpse...

 

Paul held Desmond tightly, but not too tight as he was fearful of squeezing whatever life was left out of him. Paul held him close, eyes closed, not wanting to see how pale and ghostly he looked. He wanted to picture him how he had seen him before; smiling, happy, cheeks full of colour and life. He didn’t know how long he had left. He didn’t know if he would survive this. All he knew is that he loved him, now and forever more. He would never let him go.

 

The gentle hold seemed to last forever, but all things end. This was no exception. He slowly pulled away just a little, tears suddenly streaming down his face. He softly rubbed Desmond's cheek, as if he could breathe life back into him.

 

Then he froze. Slowly running his hand back down to Desmond's neck, he nearly choked on the mix of gasps and sobs. There was a pulse. It was faint, fleeting, brief and irregular, but there _was_ a pulse.

 

"Please, Des... I'm begging you here...!"

 

There was no response. He was out cold. But he was alive! There was hope! There was a chance that Paul would see him smile again, hear him laugh again, see the colour in his face again.

 

“The air ambulance is here.” Chelmey announced.

 

Paul managed a shaky nod, knowing to leave moving Desmond to the professionals. Who knew what other damage he could cause? Backing away from him a little, he heard loud footsteps, followed by paramedics rushing into the room.

 

“Right, what exactly happened here?” One of them asked.

 

“Both of these men got shot. This one’s still alive, though.” Chelmey replied, gesturing towards Desmond.

 

“We’ll have to get him to the hospital immediately then; there might still be a chance of saving him.”

 

The paramedics rushed to work, stemming the flow of blood and preparing Desmond's still body to be airlifted, strapping him into a stretcher, and then carrying him out. Paul wanted to follow, but he knew he wasn't going to be allowed to go with them, or anything. Instead he looked around, staring at the pools of blood and hoping to god most of it was Bronev's.

 

“Hey, it’ll be okay.” A friendly paramedic said, touching his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him, “I’ll get someone to call to let you know when you can visit.”

 

“Thanks.” Paul smiled weakly at her.

 

She left the room to join the others, and Paul was left alone in the room, with the exception of Bronev’s body on the floor, of course.

 

He sighed, glaring at the body and cursing it. If Desmond didn't pull through, it would be that man's fault and he'd have no way to pay for it. Then again, nothing could make up for that...

 

Paul stood up, deciding it would be best if he at least did something, instead of just stewing in worry. His knees were numb, and covered in blood from kneeling by Desmond. When he looked at his hands, he saw they were stained red too. The amount of blood, and its almost rusty smell, made his gorge rise. He swayed a little where he stood for a moment, then stumbled out of the room, needing fresh air.

 

The boat was still on the water, but the smaller boat that he and Chelmey had arrived on was still there. Chelmey was waiting for him with Emmy in tow.

 

“Thanks for waiting.” Paul said.

 

“Well, I thought you’d need a moment to collect yourself.”

 

"That's about the measure of it, yeah... Let's just get out of here, eh?"

 

Chelmey nodded, taking a seat as the woman at the head of the boat started it up. Emmy was sat by the edge of the boat, staring into the water and trying not to notice that she'd managed somehow to get blood on her face. She didn't want to think who it belonged to.

 

Sooner rather than later, the dock was in sight and the boat had stopped.

 

Chelmey headed straight for Scotland Yard to begin Emmy’s questioning; she may have already confessed to everything, but it was routine procedure and had to be done.

 

Paul, meanwhile, decided to go home, and change out of his bloodstained clothes. He got more than a few looks when he got on the underground like that, but it was close enough to Halloween that he could pass it off as a costume.

 

Once he was home and changed, it was a waiting game. He paced by the phone, agonising over what Desmond's situation was, if he would be able to pull through.

 

Hours upon hours upon hours went by. Paul debated going to sleep but he didn’t want to risk missing the phone call. He stayed up the whole night, and by the time morning came, his eyes were sore and he could barely keep them open.


	28. Chapter 28

But eventually, the phone rang. It was around about 7:30 in the morning, and it barely got the chance to ring more than once before Paul leapt to his feet and answered it.

 

“Hello?!”

 

“Hello, Mr Topen. I’m just calling to let you know the good news. Mr Sycamore survived the operation, but we’ve put him into a medically induced coma. You can come see him if you want.”

 

Paul didn't know how to react. He was elated that Desmond was alive - of course - but in a coma? It was a terrifying thought, but all he knew for certain was that he had to be by his side this instant.

 

"Thank you." He said, quickly hanging up and rushing out the door.

 

He sped down the stairs and got into his car and drove to the hospital as fast as he possibly could.

 

Upon arriving, the receptionist told him what room Desmond was in. Paul thanked her and went off to find it.

 

 It wasn't very far away at all; he only had to walk for a couple of minutes.

 

And there he was, lying in a pristinely white bed in a clean room, the only sound to be heard was the steady beeps of the heart monitor. He was alive. He was safe now.

 

"Des..." Paul mumbled, sinking weakly into a chair next to the bed and sighing with relief, "You gotta tell me when you wake up if you could hear any of this, right? So, uh, try to remember it all..."

 

He put a hand on Desmond's cheek, smiling down at him.

 

"Emmy's gone to prison. She admitted to everything. Bronev's dead. He won't be back to haunt you ever again." He started, trying to talk just as he normally would, "I saw your brother on the way in; he's pretty much better now. He said he'd visit you tomorrow, but he needs to go pick up his kid from where she's staying first."

 

Paul sighed. He couldn't look away from Desmond. He looked so peaceful. He was so still, with the exception of the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

 

"I'm going to stay with you. I'm not going to leave you alone again, I won't do it."

 

And stay he did. The one sided conversation continued the rest of the day, save for when Paul fell asleep at around midday for an hour, purely exhausted. When he woke again, he started talking again almost immediately, rambling on about anything that came to mind.

 

He kept talking until night fell. If Desmond _could_ hear him, he wanted to make sure he knew he was there. It was a small comfort and the only thing he could offer to a man in a coma.

 

Paul fell asleep again around one o'clock on the morning. He was only woken up by a knock on the door.

 

Layton was stood in the door way, a small smile on his face.

 

"Hello, Paul." He greeted.

 

Paul blinked and rubbed his eyes.

 

"U-uhm, oh, uh... Hi, Layton..." He yawned, looking over blearily.

 

"No change at all?" Hershel asked, glancing sympathetically to the still form in the bed and sighing.

 

"Not that I can tell... I just keep talking, just in case."

 

That last sentence's truth was evident by how raspy and dry his voice was.

 

Layton silently questioned whether or not Desmond would actually be able to hear Paul in his current state. He also wondered if he kept talking for his own benefit, as opposed to Desmond’s.

 

“Have you been here all night?”

  
Paul nodded.

 

“Do you want me to get you anything?”

 

"Well some water'd be great, if you don't mind."

 

Hershel smiled, already having thought of this. He presented a small bag of things, including a bottle of water and what looked to Paul like a dressing gown.

 

"When you're in for a long time, you're allowed a few home comforts. I thought that if Desmond really was aware of everything, he might want a little something more dignified and warm than a hospital gown." Hershel explained, sitting down on the other side of the bed.

 

“He’ll appreciate that.”

 

Paul looked at Desmond again. He looked at his closed eyes and almost tricked himself into thinking that they would open any second now. In reality, they probably wouldn’t open for another couple of weeks, or even months.

 

He just kept looking at him.

 

Hershel smiled weakly, then sighed, looking at the time.

 

"Flora will be getting worried; I should get home." He said, half making an excuse to leave Paul alone like it seemed he wanted, and half telling the truth.

 

He stood and nodded to Paul, rubbing his chin.

 

"Don't push yourself, Paul; if you're exhausted when he wakes up, I can tell he won't be happy with you."

 

"He's hardly gonna be able to do anything about it. Don't worry about it, Layton, I'll be fine."

 

"As long as you're sure. I'll see you soon, Paul. Make sure you let me know if there's any changes."

 

"I will. See ya, Hershel."

 

"Goodbye, Paul."

 

Hershel smiled, waved and left the room quietly, glancing back at Desmond once more. Paul relaxed again and took Desmond's hand in his own, humming softly.

 

"Nice of him, wasn't it, Des? This dressing gown's properly luxurious..."

 

Weeks went by like this; Hershel continued to visit every so often, and Paul continued to talk to the man who may or may not have been able to hear him. He never left Desmond’s side, apart from when he needed food or to go to the toilet. He never went home. Desmond needed him. He needed Desmond.

 

It was two months when the first signs of life began to show, and Paul couldn't have been happier. All it was was a small twitch of the hand when Paul held it, but it was something after so long of nothing!

 

And the improvement just got better from there. In the next week, Desmond's eyes began to open, and he started reacting properly to nearly everything the doctors did. It was a fortnight after that when he finally spoke again.

 

“Paul? Is that you?” He said in an incredibly weak voice.

 

“Des?!”

 

Paul was visibly startled by this. After such a long time of nothing but silence, Desmond’s voice was like music to his ears.

 

Desmond’s eyes began to open properly, and the first thing he saw was Paul’s face, staring dumbfounded back at him.

 

“Hello.” Desmond smiled.

 

Paul didn't know what to say. His tongue was tied and his emotions were suddenly totally and utterly everywhere.

 

"Des, you're awake... Oh my god, it's been so long... I missed you so much..." He babbled, sniffing as tears welled up in his eyes.

 

"I know... I heard you." Desmond returned slowly, the smile on his face growing as he gained more control over his own body.

 

He began to push himself into a sitting position.

 

“I heard everything. Turns out I was right; you never stop talking. But I appreciated it. It was nice to hear a familiar voice.”

 

Paul pulled him into as tight a hug as he could.

 

“I missed you so much... I couldn’t bear to leave you...” He said in between sobs.

 

Blinking with surprise, Desmond slowly raised his arms and managed to weakly hug Paul back, smiling softly and jerkily rubbing his back.

 

"You never did give up on me. I heard it in your voice. Even Layton did, when he stopped visiting so often... It meant so much to me that you stayed by my side. Thank you, Paul..." He mumbled.

 

"Des, I never could've coped if you'd not woken up... Thank you for coming back..." Paul sobbed.

 

Moving back a little, Desmond wiped away the other man's tears as best he could, smiling widely at him. Paul looked away a bit, trying to pull himself together, but Desmond calmly moved his face back so he could look in his eyes.

 

"Paul, listen to me carefully for a moment... I've had what feels like an eternity locked inside my mind with only your voice for company, so I'm fairly sure about what I'm about to say, alright?"

 

“Alright. What is it?”

 

“Paul, I... I love you too. I heard you say it so many times, even when you thought I couldn’t hear, and I never said it back, even when I had the chance to. But it’s true; I do love you, Paul.”

 

Paul froze. He stared at Desmond and his already-wide smile turned into a wide beam. The tears in his eyes subsided, and he felt a strange sense of peace and contentment filling him.

 

"Desmond, I love you... I know, yeah, I've said it, but... I just don't know what to say..." He trailed off, too happy to think of a way to finish the sentence.

 

Desmond smiled back at him, leaning in and pulling him close. They didn't need words, not really. Over the past months or so, Paul had definitely had his fair share.

 

“I’m never going to leave your side again.”

 

“So you said.” Desmond chuckled.

 

“I mean it. I’m going to stay with you forever whether you get sick of me or not. I love you, Desmond Sycamore, and I’m never letting you go.”

 

"Good thing I won't get sick of you. Now, Paul Topen, it has been much too long. Come here..."

 

With a soft, caring half-smirk, Desmond pulled Paul down to his level, pressing a gentle, loving kiss against his lips and closing his eyes. The feeling of their lips connecting was pure bliss; there was no other way Desmond could ever describe it.

 

The kiss was long, passionate, and way overdue in both men’s opinions. It grew hungrier, and both their heart rates increased. They had seriously missed each other; missed the touch of the other man’s lips against their own, the hands holding them steady, the warm feeling that the kiss brought. It was good to get reacquainted.

 

It was a long while before they moved apart, gasping for air and staring at each other in amazement. Neither could believe the other had it in them, but they'd mutually proven each other wrong on that part.

 

"Well... I might as well give you the good news whilst we're at it..." Paul said, chuckling breathlessly and catching Desmond into another quick but deep kiss.

 

"Hm...?" Desmond looked interested, kissing back just as lovingly before he moved away to let Paul speak properly.

 

“The cops decided to let you go free. You’re considered a hero and everyone can see that you’ve completely changed for the better.”

 

Desmond beamed, a massive smile decorating his features.

 

“Paul! That’s wonderful!”

 

“I know! I told you I wouldn’t let you be alone anymore.”

 

“Hm. Did you have anything to do with this by any chance?”

 

“I might have done...”

 

Desmond moved back in for another kiss, his overwhelming joy shining in his eyes. Pausing, he stroked Paul's cheek.

 

"Thank you. I honestly do love you..." He murmured, letting his lips rest gently on the other man's as he spoke.

 

“I love you too.” Paul kissed him again.

 

They stayed like this for a while, just holding each other. It almost didn’t seem real; all that mattered was each other, they didn’t have anything to worry about or fear now. They were both free, they were together, and they could stay that way now.

 

“I want to always be with you.”


End file.
